In a Place Like This
by Halcyon Impulsion
Summary: Hunting and banter, angst and brotherly love, old friends and new alliances. Post Season One, mostly AU now. No long lost sister. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**In a Place Like This **

_Summary: Hunting and banter, angst and brotherly love, old friends and new family. Post Season One. No long lost sister. No slash._

_Author's Note: Okay, so I know I haven't finished the other two, but I haven't forgotten them either. And like I said in the summary, no sisters. I promise. This starts out pretty light, but don't worry it won't stay that way! Read and review please._

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Consider this free advertising, Kripke._

* * *

Scuttling backward on all fours, Dean felt blindly for anything he could use as a club. As his hand closed around a mossy branch big enough to fill his fist, he let out a primal holler and bashed the sasquatch with every ounce of his strength. 

The thing went down and he cursed as he heard his cell phone ring. He couldn't believe he'd forgotten to turn it off, but this wasn't really the time to reflect. He couldn't see Sam. And Mrs. Big Foot was apparently only dazed, not unconscious. Dean got to his feet and whacked the foul-smelling beast in the head again, while scanning for his brother.

"Sammy! Sam!"

"Here Dean! This baby's a fussy one… I could use you!"

Whirling, he saw Sam about a dozen yards away, struggling with the six-foot monster "child". Dean covered the distance rapidly, sparing only a glance for the unfortunate hikers they'd come for. One was clearly dead, and the other one would be soon if this didn't end quickly.

The creature didn't notice him – intent on trying to eat Sam – and Dean jumped on a conveniently placed fallen log, roaring as he swung his new favorite weapon. The twelve-inch advantage gave him enough leverage to really put his back into the swing, and the object of his aim hit the forest floor without so much as a grumble. Towering over the reeking monster he muttered, "Note to self: add big sticks to the stuff in the trunk".

"Way to go, Tarzan." Sam managed, gasping and bloody. He leaned against the nearest evergreen trunk and began to sink toward the ground, heedless of the damage pine sap and rough bark were doing to his jacket.

Dean, equally breathless and wounded, sat down heavily on the log he'd used as a step ladder and grinned at his brother. "No problem, Jane. Not the first time I've saved you, not gonna be the last."

Regardless of the shape they were in, provocation and mock aggravation made it bearable. Sam gave his brother the requisite look of exasperation and his gaze moved past Dean to the still bodies of Jimmy Roth and Dominic Sanelli

"Are you sure you killed the mother – "

"No, actually." said Dean, standing wearily. "I was a little too busy trying to make sure you didn't end up as lunch." He scowled and looked up at the twilight sky. "Make that dinner."

Sam stood too, and they took stock. He started over to the hikers, but when he didn't hear Dean follow he paused and turned around, immediately alarmed at the sight of his older brother; stock still and face pale.

"Are you okay, man?" Sam asked, in front of Dean in less then two of his long strides.

"It's gone."

Sam looked around a little wildly. "Are you sure?"

Dean glanced at his brother in irritation. "Well Sammy, I must have missed GPS Implantation 101 …" he caught a confused look from Sam. "Dude, I don't know!"

"Well, where did you leave her?" Sam asked in his best kindergarten-teacher-voice, rolling his eyes.

Dean pointed, fuming, towards an area of ferns and berry bushes, flattened by the battle. "The giant stinking tribble is most definitely _not _where I left it." he said, moving closer to Sam, scanning the surrounding trees.

The air was tight with tension and eerilyquiet (not a new sensation to the hunters). They stood back to back, close enough to hear each other breathe in the triangle created by the space of the missing adult sasquatch, the incapacitated young one and the likely-both-dead hikers. Waiting. And then practically knocked one another out in their scrambling as Dean's cell phone rang again.

"Dean! Dude! Turn it off!" Sam hissed as his brother fumbled for the phone. "We have rules about phones – next timeit staysin the car!" Sam lectureda silent, pained Dean as he found the phone, turned it off, and re-pocketed it without checking who called. They were technically still in combat.

Sam felt a little calmer now, actually. Yelling at Dean when Dean deserved it always seemed to lower his stress level a few notches. It happened infrequently, so the rest of his blustering at his brother just added to the pile of guilt he lived under. Since Dean wouldn't take an apology without accusing Sam of being a drama queen, the younger Winchester loved moments like this when he could get it out of his system legitimately.

Again, they stood in the stillness, watching for any sign of the mother, watching for signs of the smaller one regaining consciousness, watching for anything else that might be lurking.

Dean checked his watch. It had been nearly twenty minutes and nothing had moved. While sasquatches were known for stealth, they were also known for being pretty solitary. They'd figured from their research into the attacks that there was more than one doing the killing, but since so little was documented on these creatures, who knew how they cared for their young, or mates. Or for that matter, hunting habits, eating habits and calling-in-the-cavalry habits. He looked over at Sam and gave a frustrated sigh.

"We need get out of here before it's pitch black. The attacks all took place during daylight, but who knows what these freaky things will do if you kill one of their offspring."

"True." said Sam, running a hand, black with dried mud, through hair which hadn't fared much better. "I'm actually pretty surprised that the other one didn't come back. Maybe it wasn't the mother."

Dean snorted, "Sammy, it might not have even been a female – that was just a guess."

Sam frowned. "I know, but still. These are clearly mammals of some kind, and it's not unreasonable to figure they'd behave similarly to other primate sorts of mammals when it comes to social and familial habits…"

"Maybe home sweet home was far enough away that they just haven't had time to get back here yet." Dean said darkly. "Like I said. We need to move."

"Agreed. It's not like I want to be here if a whole herd of them comes back for revenge."

"Let's make sure this one is dead, grab the kids and hit the road."

"You sound like we're packing up the mini-van and going on vacation." said Sam with a chuckle.

"We can't go to Disneyland, honeybuns, until we've cleaned up the backyard and done some laundry." Dean crossed his eyes, "Getting this smell out is gonna be a freakin' nightmare."

Sam smiled at the irony. "Dean, if laundry's a nightmare, what's this?"

Dean detected a hint of sadness in his brother's voice, but he pushed down his response in favor of sarcasm's safety.

"Hide and seek, Sammy, fun and games."

* * *

As they headed down the trail toward the parking lot and the Impala, it was mostly dark, and the sounds of the wood had returned, comforting them both though neither spoke of it. Dean wasted no time heading down the mountain and they'd almost reached civilization when Sam spoke. 

"Dude, what was with the sound effects?"

"Shut up – I saved _your_ sorry backside, bro – if a little verbal affirmation bothers you I can skip the keeping you alive part next time…"

"Affirmation? You been watching Oprah again while I'm at the library? Got yourself a 'life coach' and everything?" Sam guffawed and slapped his knee as he looked at Dean, who even in the shadows was a shade more red than usual.

Dean smoldered for a moment, his knuckles tightening white on the chocolaty steering wheel. And then his glower turned into a smirk as the come-back came to him.

"Awww, Sammy, I didn't want to embarrass you, but dude, did you really think I wouldn't find that copy of "50 Self-Help Classics" you left under the front seat? I just wanted to –" and here his banter turned into down-right snark – "make a connection to you, you know, help you through this mental health crisis."

Sam raised an eyebrow and inclined his head towards his older brother – whose Cheshire smile could be felt more than seen – conceding to the master.

"Thanks, Dean. What a brother, what a man."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Summary: Hunting and banter, angst and brotherly love, old friends and new family. Post Season One. No long lost sister. No slash.

Author's Note: There was an article in our local paper about a guy who gathers used frying oil from fast food restaurants and runs his car with it - his exhaust smells like french fries. Thanks to the wonderful, beautiful, fabulous people who reviewed the first chapter, said nice things, put me on alert, and added me to their favorites. Ya'll rock. Enjoy and review. Little bit of darkness in this chapter.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Really. Kripke, you should be happy your beloved characters are so beloved.

* * *

Dean had driven slightly more maniacally than usual on the way down the mountain and they'd taken the two teenage backpackers immediately to the small local clinic. Amazingly, both were alive, if barely. 

In a town this small, it didn't take much to have the entire population of 119 souls in an uproar. The sheriff met them as they got out of the Impala, ready to mete out justice for traffic violations – Dean had run _the_ stoplight _and_ had broken the "downtown" speed limit by about 40 miles per hour. By the time Jimmy and Dominic had been laid out inside and the pronouncement of breath and heartbeat had spread through the gathered crowd, the Winchesters were done feeding the sheriff their story.

Parking at the giant-summer-camp-cabin that was their motel, they showered and changed quickly then walked the half block to the local eatery. They were starving, but they also wanted to catch fresh reactions to the attack, and this was the best place to do it in a town without an actual evening "hotspot". Forest Edge, Washington was about the smallest hamlet they'd ever been too – the nearest tavern was a good twenty-odd minutes of unpaved road.

* * *

It wasn't until they'd returned to the Like-A-Log Inn ("Sleep Like A Log In Rustic Comfort") late that night that Dean checked his phone. 

"Sam, does the name S.R. Bennett sound familiar?"

"Nope – why?" asked Sam without looking up from the laptop.

"Just checking to see who called while we were…busy this afternoon." Dean replied a little sheepishly. Sam looked up and flashed Dean a glower worthy of a gothic lord.

"Seriously bro, that was a bad move. You need to leave that thing in the car –"

"I thought it was on vibrate, Sammy –" Dean interrupted only to be cut off.

"But it wasn't and it could have done some real damage if we'd been in stealth mode! Leave it next time or you could get us killed!" he snapped.

"I get it, alright? 'No phone for you' – what are you? Sammy the Cell Nazi?" Dean barked. "I said I'm sorry, I said it was an accident. Get over it. I'll bring the freakin' phone with me if I want to!"

"Oh you will?" said Sam in his Ice Man voice.

"Yeah." replied Dean the Pit Bull.

They stared at one another and finally Sam gave a shake of his head and turned disdainfully back to the computer. He sighed to himself as he realized he'd become Pesky Preachy Sammy yet again – it was a surefire way to shut down any avenue of communication deeper than a squabble. Dean didn't take correction, period. One day he'd remember that and hopefully his days of losing staring contests with his big brother would be over. Sam worried constantly and told himself often and with irritation that it would have to be enough for both of them since Dean didn't seem to do it at all.

And yet that wasn't true and thus, the problem. Dean kept his fear on the inside and had apparently found a way to convert it, like fast food grease to Volkswagen fuel, into something that gave him power and control. Dean had fear, and sometimes it even looked to Sam as though that river ran darker and deeper than his own. But Dean stepped up regardless and plowed it over – plowed it under, more like – and all his terror blazed the way to glory.

This is what gave the little brother the ability to hunt. He watched his warrior sibling walk right on through the Valley, right on past those Shadows, right on up to Death, and slice its head off. Dean had a choice, and Sam knew it. He could battle for good and save his family and maybe the world, or he could run and let the darkness eat him alive. While Sam couldn't profess that courage himself, he knew Dean had it, and he loved Dean and so in his heart he was reduced to the childhood "I'll do it, if you'll do it".

If given the choice, Sam would never rescue the universe from its fate – he'd wait and hold the ones he loved and let that fate become his own, regardless. Dean wouldn't and that was a difference Dean had never seen and Sam had never let him. He'd tried and tried in his younger days to understand his older brother's secret – to figure out bravery and bravado and killing for the greater good and not just for revenge, and if Dean knew he'd failed to teach his baby brother those things he'd die inside (so Sam would never tell him).

Sam refused to see his father's rage inside himself, nearly all the time. Yet on the Hunt the two of them became fused in a way that scared him. In the heat of melee he became John Winchester and all the revenge in the cosmos wasn't enough to sate the anguish of his broken love. There was no greater good. Only the dead mother that came to him in dreams and the woman, also there, who would have borne his children – ashes, all of them because of him.

So his current plan was to keep on being "Sammy" and if he could hold on long enough, maybe Dean could save him (though he couldn't fathom how), and with no one left to love except his brother… Sam would fight for Dean's cause and hope eventually it would be enough to end this horror, one way or another.

* * *

"Sammy. Dude. Earth to Captain College Boy, come in Captain College Boy." Dean poked his brother repeatedly in the back. 

"Hey, quit!" said Sam, coming out of his reverie and swatting at Dean.

"Where'd you go? You're not possessed are you? Want me to do some tests – "

"No, jerk. I'm fine. Get off me." Sam said sharply as he cut off Dean's grinning suggestions and nearly overturning the chair, he shook away the hands that had him playfully pinned to the rickety slat-back from behind.

"Sheesh - lighten up!" Dean muttered, raising his hands and taking a step backward. His annoyance turned immediately to concern as Sam sat down again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"Sorry." Mumbled Sam, unmoving.

"It's okay bro – are you alright?"

"Fine Dean, really. Sorry I snapped."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean didn't wait for an answer and was to the bathroom and back in barely a stride with a plastic motel-issue cup of tap water. He gently nudged Sam's shoulder and Sam looked up and gave his brother a crooked smile.

"I don't need a glass of water, Dean… I was just distracted and you startled me. No vision, no headache, nothing but a crummy childhood and an absent father." He smiled again and stretched as he stood; knowing the running joke would ratchet down Dean's fretting a couple notches.

"Awww, but you got _me_, Sammy – and what's a big brother for if not to share a crummy childhood with?" Dean grinned and spread his arms wide like he was looking for a hug he dared Sam to take if he wanted to live another day.

"What was that name you were asking me about?" Sam said casually, shifting the conversation away from himself. Dean's forehead creased and he turned and reached toward the nightstand for his phone.

"S.R. Bennett. Ring any bells?"

"I don't think so…" Sam answered slowly, turning back to the laptop and sitting down again. "Might be someone Dad sent our way."

"Or somebody that someone _else_ is sending our way because Dad won't answer his frickin' phone." Dean grumbled. "You gotta love the man, but it's not like we don't have enough to do without being his answering service." Dean paused and then beamed a little, "We've managed to create a decent following for ourselves actually. It's cool to be preceded by your reputation."

"Yeah," Sam cracked, "and to be known for our fine monster-hunting skills too." At this Dean laughed and raised an eyebrow in appreciation.

"Let me see what I can find. What's the number?"

Dean read it off the phone and spelled the last name as Sam started Google-ing.

"That's a Massachusetts area code, but the number isn't coming up listed in any directories so far. Probably a cell. Let's see…" his voice trailed off.

Dean leaned closer so he could see the screen. Sam was notorious for speaking in half sentences or forgetting to do so altogether when he was doing research. Dean hated waiting for Sam to put it all together and spit it out, and so had learned to compensate by following along. It wasn't that he thought he was smarter than his younger brother – though he'd never admit his pride in Sammy's brains he knew the kid was brilliant – but they approached problems differently. And Dean could read faster, which irked Sam to no end, so looking over his shoulder gave him both quicker access to the information and some amusement of the Aggravated Sammy sort.

"Hey, give me some space." Sam scowled. "Looks like there are about a billion people named S. Bennett in Massachusetts… but I did narrow down the prefix to Berkshire County." He gave Dean a push with his shoulder, and Dean moved a little.

"Check out S.R. in Berkshire – let's see what that gets us. And if it doesn't net much try the U.S. Public Records Index over on – "

"Would you like to sit down and type? 'Cause if you want to, I can just hand this over." Sam pointed to the laptop, his eyes wide and his voice overly cheerful with sarcasm.

"Go ahead." said Dean with a smirk, walking to the bed and spreading himself out on it. "I've been meaning to catch up with my life coach – you're welcome to do the dirty work geek-boy." And with that he lifted the remote from the pillow next to him and hit the power button. In his peripheral vision he saw Sam roll his eyes and turn back to the screen, and he gave himself permission to take a nap with the television as a hedge against the intrusion of Sammy's small talk.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Heads up. Sam angst, practically no banter. One of those chapters that has to happen in order for us all to move on… but don't worry your pretty heads, the action and wise-cracking are not over by a long shot, so please stay tuned. Thanks to those who are reading and reviewing - I love to hear what you love, and I appreciate hearing what bothers you; thanks to Wild Wolf for the punctuation primer; thanks to Ancestry dot com for their most excellent US Public Records Index (1984-present). I borrowed a line from their official description (and it's in quotes). Oh and - anyone want to guess what the S.F.S.F. is?

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Sam spent another half hour hacking for S.R. Bennett, and then decided to do some more research on the sasquatch problem since Dean was obviously asleep. He hadn't come up with much on this Bennett person; surprisingly he couldn't find a record of the number on any of customer lists he'd hijacked from various cellular companies. He also hadn't found much in the way of public records in Massachusetts – only two hits.

The first was a S. Ramsey Bennett of Greylock, listed 117 Baxter Street with a local phone number – most recently in the 2006 local directory. His other find came from the database Dean had suggested. In March 2005, Sasha R. Bennett (born 1981) was listed with her husband Evan T. Bennett (1975), daughter Ava R. (2001) and son Myles E. (2004), but nothing more. The database didn't source the information, just said it came from records "accessible to the general public by contacting the appropriate agency" and left you to guess where they'd dug it up in the first place.

Sam dutifully noted and saved the information, wishing they didn't have to worry so much about a phone call that might just be a wrong number. After all, the caller hadn't left a message, so there wasn't really a point, he supposed. What a life – it was hard not to be paranoid when the whole underworld was pretty much after you. Some days understanding just how much evil existed was downright depressing. Like Dean always said – if you know what's out there, noises from the closet or under the bed were seemed more sinister. As did hang-up calls from people you have no clue who are.

So he turned his attention to sasquatches for another hour and a half (formulating a vague plan for the morrow), got ready for bed and turned off the television manually so as not to disturb the remote in his big brother's hand. Sam had no desire for a punch in the gut tonight. As he drifted off, he smiled at the rhythmic tenor lullaby he'd listened to it almost every night of his life – it hadn't kept him awake since he was about six years old. He'd smack you silly if you suggested such a thing, but one of Dean's most dependable attributes was the quality and volume of his snore.

* * *

Morning brought a flurry of activity which precluded further discussion of the mysterious mid-sasquatch-hunt phone call. The sheriff knocked crisply on their door at eight a.m. sharp and informed them that there was going to be a town meeting at nine, to which they were invited despite their outsider status because they'd found the boys on the mountain and brought them home. 

They were out the door in fifteen minutes, back to Carmen's Café for breakfast and to listen in to the buzz among the locals. They stayed until Carmen herself put the closed sign on the door and herded her customers two blocks down Main Street to the square across from City Hall.

Sam leaned over and in a tone he generally considered to indicate privacy, asked Dean why they weren't meeting inside. Both Winchesters jumped as an elderly woman who looked like Mrs. Claus – a red t-shirt, rosy cheeks, spectacles and mounds of white hair piled on her head - stuck her nose between them and smiled cheerfully.

"Well boys, it's like this. The AC is on the fritz in City Hall and with the temperatures what they have been," she stopped and rolled her eyes, fanning herself with both hands. "We'd cook like a chicken in a crock pot in there! Especially with all the hot air I expect we'll hear," she gave them a mischievous smile.

Stepping back, she looked them over like she was trying to decide whether to make a purchase, causing Dean to grin and Sam to blush ferociously, and then spoke again. "You two aren't from around here," it was a statement not a question, and her open face shuttered some as she waited for an explanation.

"Uh… no, Ma'am…we're not," Dean answered the unspoken query with a practiced politeness he reserved for women over thirty that he'd never think about dating – just a touch of charm, not over the line into serious flirtation. He paused to gauge her reaction, and glanced at Sam, whose eyes didn't leave the groove he was digging into the grass with his toe.

"What's your business here?" her tone was even and couldn't be considered friendly.

"We're... uh, researchers," he announced, trying to look especially intelligent. "We were hoping to help shed some light on what's been happening here – with all the… the problems on the mountain," he shifted his weight just enough to step hard on Sam's foot. "Isn't that right?" he said as he _looked_ at his brother.

* * *

Sam hated this. No matter how often he did it he didn't think he'd ever get used to lying straight to people's faces. Dean could sell a sno-cone machine to an Eskimo and he was excellent at understanding how hard to push a person's buttons and still get a positive response. But Sam couldn't push buttons, he didn't have Dean's natural magnetism. All he could do was open himself up and offer what he had, hoping they'd see the honesty behind the essential ruse and respond to that. 

It wasn't that he felt Dean was an inherently devious individual. In truth, his brother was one of the most guileless human beings he'd ever known (setting aside the necessities of their profession). Dean epitomized charisma, and he had a way of looking into the soul of another and reading it that made Sam wonder (often) which of them had the greater psychic gift. And yet Dean didn't take advantage of that ability. He used it to gain the upper hand when the Hunt or the life they lived because of it required him to, he used it to try and soothe and save anyone he could – Sam, Dad or perfect strangers.

As much as he had always longed for a simple life of mundane normalcy, some part of Sam had always suspected it wasn't realistic. He'd fought for it with all the strength he could muster, but there was no question now – with Jess gone, there was no question. And he wondered if this was why it had become so hard to even _watch_ Dean do this anymore. Illusion just confused and humiliated him these days. The idea that people could go along just thinking there was such a thing as safety, such a thing as being _okay_… but then, a moment like this came. Dean would give him the signal to jump into the conversation and Sam would feel like he was going to drown, the panic digging in like monster's claws. Suddenly, every time Dean had ever rescued him flashed through his mind, as they say it will while you die and so somehow he sucked it up and played along and made it work. He took Dean's courage and held on tight, and said the right thing. Hating every moment, still, he could not help but watch his brother's back.

* * *

"Yes, we're researchers with the S.F.S.F. – we'd really like to assist in the investigation here," Sam gave a warm, trustworthy smile (his specialty) and continued in a confidential tone, "We've got a lot of experience with things like this." 

"Oh really?" said the woman, her eyes wide and demeanor soft once again. "That's wonderful! Such a terrible shame, all this mess – all those people killed!" she grimaced and pressed a hand her chest to accentuate her horror.

"Yes. We completely agree with you, Mrs. –" here Dean paused quizzically and she didn't hesitate.

"Chelton, Mona Chelton" she said earnestly, grabbing Dean's hand and pumping it several times.

"Well, Mona – it looks like this meeting is about it start," he managed to extract his hand and gestured in the direction of the podium which had been set up at one end of the green space in the little town square. "But if you think of anything that might help us out, we're staying at the inn a few blocks down, alright?

"Of _course_!" She gushed, clearly star struck by the handsome bucks of the S.F.S.F. – "Whatever I can do to help you young men, I'd be _so_ glad to do!" she paused and then asked, "Now who should I ask for at the Like-A-Log?"

Dean and Sam looked at one another and then Dean's phone rang. He took it out and glanced at the caller ID, giving Sam a serious Agent Mulder look for effect. Then he turned to Mona.

"I'm sorry, this is official business. I have to take this – but my colleague will give you our contact information," he had already begun to back away and Sam shot him a nasty look before the jolly woman in front of him turned her gaze back.

* * *

On the way to the café less than an hour ago, Sam had given Dean a brief run-down on his new sasquatch theories, as well as the inconclusive findings on the unknown S.R. Bennett. Not a lot to go on in either case, but at least Dean felt a little more comfortable answering this call. 

"Hello?" he answered with a low, emotionless tone. There was silence for several seconds and then a woman began to speak.

"I… I'm… trying to reach Dean Winchester," she hesitated, and her voice steady but strained. "Missouri told me to contact you," she stopped, waiting to see what response that garnered.

"Missouri?" Dean questioned, wanting more than a first name, more than just the suggestion of a mutual acquaintance.

"Yes, in Kansas… Missouri Moseley. She said you could help me… and that what I know might be of some help to you as well."

"Did she give you this number?" he asked bluntly, unconsciously reaching, trying to pick up something with his internal dowsing rod. The woman didn't seem caught off guard, but in her own way she was guarded as well. This was a good thing in his mind. Those too free with their own stories could rarely be trusted.

"Yes. I spoke with her three days ago at her home."

"And you tried to call yesterday."

"Yes. I'm sorry I didn't leave a message –" her voice faltered a little and Dean heard a slight tremor in it. "I called and then I…" she gave a short, sheepish laugh. "Chickened out." He could hear the smile in her voice, and he couldn't help grinning a little himself.

"Alright – I can appreciate that. What has you so worried?" he asked, warming some.

"Well, Missouri said you might bite," she said, sounding only _half_ joking. "And I guess I've been at this alone for what seems like a long time," Her voice was instantly sober. "It's hard to know who to trust… and frankly, if you're not willing to help me, I think I'm about out of options," she paused and Dean heard an almost inaudible sigh from the other end of the phone. "For me, being out of options is a pretty terrifying thought."

Dean didn't reply right away, thinking about what she'd said, the murmur of the crowd and the warm lazy breeze seeming to slow down time. When he spoke, it was with his mind made up – as long as she checked out with Missouri and Sammy didn't have any freaky psycho-boy feelings about the whole thing.

"Are you Ramsey or Sasha?"

"Both," she replied. Again, Dean could hear the smile in her voice.

"Meaning…"

"Ramsey's my maiden name. I sometimes use it when I don't want people to know I'm a –" she stopped abruptly and for a moment Dean wondered if one of them had lost a signal.

"You still there?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "Sorry about that. I list myself as S. Ramsey Bennett when I don't want to advertise that I'm a single woman, living alone," her voice sounded hollow and Dean could hear the well-disguised grief only because he knew what to listen for.

"Okay – Sasha it is then," he didn't skip a beat, he could pry later. "Let me call Missouri and see what she has to say. If you know what we do, you know we have to be careful. Can I reach you at this number in the next 24 hours?"

"Yes," was the subdued reply.

"Then you'll hear from me," said Dean, and he closed the phone and looked across the milling mass to find his brother.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers. I refuse to hold you hostage by threatening you with long waits between updates, but please – if you read, review! Feeling loved makes me type faster, really. Let's see. Today I have for you… Sam angst (yes, I am limpening him), a bit of Dean angst, car talk, banter, breakfast menu, and a little meet-n-greet. Thanks to Faye and Tidia especially this time around – it's lovely to talk with great brains and I appreciate the advice and encouragement more than I can say. Oh, and no one but Mady Bay was curious about the S.F.S.F so she gets her name in lights and the rest of you have to wait until chapter five to find out. Sorry Mady, but it's not Super Freak, she's Super Freaky :) Good guess :)  
_

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. And I swear, you don't want to know what a new best friend for the boys (i.e. female hunter) will do to the fangirls Kripke. Seriously.

* * *

_

**Chapter Four**

By the time Dean found Sam, the meeting had started and gratefully, Mona was absorbed in listening to the sheriff. Sam shot him a slightly dirty look as he sidled up and Dean, preoccupied, didn't grin back as usual. Sam had been curious about who called, and now he felt concern dripping along the back of his neck like slow rain, pushing his buttons.

They stayed for whole meeting, just over an hour. The sun was warm and Dean had astonished his brother by taking off his leather jacket about halfway through. They'd started out standing, but about ten minutes in the mayor leaned over and whispered something and Sheriff Crockett had advised them that sitting was a good idea since they'd be there awhile. The usual eye-contact and near mind reading that took place between Sam and Dean during this sort of public gathering had been surprisingly missing, and Sam tried to think of the last time he'd seen his brother this unfocused on a hunt-related excursion.

When it was over, Dean came back from wherever he was mentally, and they schmoozed a little with the locals. Sheriff Crockett spotted them and insisted they meet the mayor, and Mona was prattling to everyone within hearing range. Sam had made up the S.F.S.F. on the spur of the moment, and now the Winchesters (AKA the VanPelt brothers) had been just about elevated the status of agents from some secret government agency. Sam sighed. You give small town gossips an inch and they'll either run you out on a rail or treat you with reverence usually reserved for James Bond.

Sam knew Dean counted on this, it was part of what he did – assessing people's faith (gullibility?) and deciding how to best access (exploit?) it for the good of the many. He wondered briefly if part of his problem with Dean's ability to attract and gain people's trust, and perceive their emotional and mental states was simply jealousy. Admitting that was difficult, but part of Sam had been a bit green-eyed since he was old enough to realize how many things Dean was that he himself _wasn't_. Time had not fixed this problem for the younger brother – the envy seemed to rear its ugly head more often than ever these days.

They talked, they asked questions, they acted official and scientifically inclined; always staying close enough to listen to each other with one ear in order to keep the story straight. As much as he disliked this pretending, Sam's earnestness was an asset and his mind could be as quick as Dean's at storytelling when he let himself relax into it. As the mingling drew to a close and the townsfolk began to wander, Dean and Sam finally met one another's gaze and the grins mirrored on their faces would have convinced a jury of their shared genetics.

"Good stuff, baby brother," Dean said, in a low tone of admiration that only Sam could hear. "You were really on your game today," he nodded appreciatively.

"Not too shabby yourself old man," replied Sam with a laugh.

"That acronym thing was a stroke of genius – though next time give me a heads up so I know who it is we're working for," Dean smirked.

"It's need-to-know and you did just fine not knowing," Sam bantered back. "Besides, it's good practice for your improv skills – consider it a training drill."

Dean rolled his eyes and Sam gave him a satisfied smile in return. They stood in silence for awhile, watching the Square empty, comfortable in the breezy sunshine, content with the synergy that this drama had reminded them existed within their brotherhood.

The scene before them was an ordinary one, and in Sam's mind the moment juxtaposed with his pile of strange and lonely experiences… so much of his life had been spent feeling ill at ease and being outside looking in. The high he now felt, standing in the warmth and light at Dean's side was a contradiction. He knew this wasn't completely real, this feeling of safety and tranquility. That vampires, wendigos, sasquatches and demons_ existed_ – the last actually, actively hunting _him_. And they tortured and fed and killed and he'd never be free as long as he lived because he_ knew_ – and this life the Winchesters braved was based on the adage "where much is given, much is required".

He could want a puppy – well maybe not a puppy, Black Dog slobber had pretty much cured that desire – and a white picket fence and minivan and Jess… _he could want Jess_… but wanting wasn't having. And the spark deep within him that had driven a much younger and more believing Sam to leave his family in search of what Jessica Moore symbolized, was all but out cold.

Contradiction because although he loathed all of the untruth his hunter's life had come to depend on, it was these occasions of performance, when he was entrenched in Dean's make-believe universe (and they both became more themselves than a hunter ever had permission to be) that he felt almost healed. An actual hunt might dull the pain and distract him for awhile, but the overwhelming depression he'd felt since his brother dragged him from his charred and smoking life with Jess, really only lifted at times like this.

When Dean created for him the fantasy of another reality, Sam let himself follow without fighting and take in the rush and intoxication that he'd always suspected a normal existence would give. That he'd absolutely planned to let take over as soon as he could steel himself to escape the lies and vengeance he'd been raised on, and tell his true love where all the scars had come from. These days he tried not to think about whether or not he'd missed his only chance at that – his only chance for run-of-the-mill safety and cookies-and-milk devotion.

"Did you hear me Sammy?" quizzed Dean, a little irritation in his voice.

"Huh?" said Sam, shaking himself alert.

"Dude, a little more time on_ this_ planet would be helpful," Dean muttered.

Sam smiled wide, "Well, you're always hounding me to take a nap, maybe you should be more specific with your instructions…"

Dean tried unsuccessfully to glare at his kid brother, really, but he couldn't resist Sammy's happy face, so he punched him on the shoulder instead.

"C'mon, brat. I'm hungry – Carmen booted us out just as I was about to order the rest of my breakfast."

"You had the _large_ order of Belgian waffles, scrambled eggs, like six sausages and told the waitress to bring a _pitcher_ of OJ! Dude! What were you gonna order?" Sam said incredulously, rubbing his shoulder.

"Hashbrowns and Wheaties – breakfast of champions."

* * *

It was almost noon when they headed back to the Like-A-Log, having stopped to pick up lunch at Carmen's. They flopped on the twin beds which furnished the room, Dean face down and Sam face up. 

"You know, Dean, it's not like you stayed up late or anything – if anyone should get a nap it's me," said Sam idly, staring at the cobwebs adorning the ceiling. Dean's reply was muffled, but Sam understood it nonetheless and sat up. "You can nap later Dean – I'll even drive when we're done here, but we need to decide what to do next. I don't want to live out the rest of my life in this quaint abode, and frankly, I officially hate sasquatches, and spiders," he said, folding his gangly self cross-legged and trying to keep the lightened mood of the morning in his voice. Dean sat up halfway, still on his stomach and leaning on his elbows.

"Man, I'm so with you on the first two and add log cabins and single beds," he grumbled. "I can't even remember the last place we stayed in where 'double room' meant less than two double beds," he grinned as he went on "I mean, your feet have hung off the end of the bed anyway since you were fourteen, but usually with a bigger bed you can at least sleep diagonally."

"Shut up," Sam said, a chuckle belying the sharp retort. "At least I'm not the only one falling off the bed this time – these beds couldn't comfortably fit anyone taller than about 5'4", and you're bigger than _that_, short stuff."

"Thanks, Dude, and for that crack you're not driving my baby girl anywhere, any time soon no matter how much sleep I need," Dean said tauntingly.

"Whatever – like you'd let me drive anyway," Sam sighed, rolling his eyes.

"You're right about that, you car-killer." Dean rumbled darkly.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said."

"I _thought_ we were over this, Dean – it wasn't my fault," Sam groaned. "It wasn't my driving skills that mangled your car – hello? Do the words 'deranged demon-possessed long-haul trucker' mean anything to you?" He was annoyed, and Dean's straight-faced indignation was something Sam was seriously considering wiping right off his face.

Dean could sense his brother's frustration and decided not to tease. "Sure geek-boy," he grinned, standing and ruffling Sam's hair. "You're off the hook. Now are you gonna nap all day or share your brilliant master plan with me?"

Sam scowled and stalked to the table where the laptop sat, being a little more dramatic than he needed to be, playing the baby as Dean expected him to – fixing up a tense moment with a perfected Winchester formula.

"C'mon Sammy, don't be mad," Dean simpered with exaggeration. "You know I wouldn't do it if it didn't work every time," he smirked, sitting down next to his brother.

"Sure, Dean," Sam replied the jest evident in his voice "I love you anyway – I know you can't help it. Some people are just _born_ jerks."

He knew Sam had not been at fault for the post-showdown wreck that had caused his beloved to pass on to a better place. But the first thing Sam had said when Dean regained consciousness in the hospital was "Sorry about your car". So the big brother got a lot of mileage out heckling the younger brother for the demise of the Winchester Impala, even now that she'd been…not replaced…reincarnated. Old soul in a new body.

* * *

Sam, in his attempt to make up for the not-his-fault demolition of the family car had spent hours online, and after a few no-deals, managed to find the same model with specs exact down to the steering wheel color. Insurance money in the hidden trunk compartment of their (temporary, Dean insisted) 15-year-old Saturn 4-door sedan, they drove seven states in five days. Reaching Detroit, after pulling an all-nighter, Dean refused to stop and sleep. He told Sam he'd drop him off at a motel, or the kid could shut his mouth, but he wasn't gonna waste anymore time in this "tin can trying to be a real car". Sam didn't think letting a drive-high, sleep deprived Dean loose in a vintage car lot with a tens of thousands of dollars in cash was a good idea, so he shut up. 

He'd hung back as Dean prowled the lot, having not bothered to find a salesman… hunting, Sam thought with amusement. Watching, he could see the tension and fatigue in his brother's body, and thought for the thousandth time the Winchester stubbornness was likely going to be the thing that killed Dean. AMA was the only way their family seemed to leave medical facilities, and this time had been no exception.

The doctor had been in a state of total disbelief as Sam took care of the discharge paperwork. By his estimate, Dean needed at least six more weeks of hospitalization, followed by physical therapy and – the doctor had added as he lost his professional demeanor – probably some intensive psychological treatment, which might be a good idea for the whole family.

Dean had been insistent though, and it was one of the few times in his life Sam had seen his brother truly terrified. In a heartbeat the good doctor would probably have helped Sam declare Dean unfit to make medical decisions and Sam could have attempted to keep Dean in the hospital, but two things had stopped him.

One, keeping a Winchester captive was not exactly a realistic expectation. Two… well, two was a toss up really. On one hand Sam was scared and angry and he needed his big brother. And on the other hand, the fear and anger he felt was reflected in Dean's eyes each time they opened – and he knew Dean needed him too but couldn't figure out how to ask. The only way Sam could think of to get through this was to deal with it the way they pretty much always had – together, alone. Away from prying strangers and well-meaning authority figures.

As his eyes followed his brother through the vehicular maze, he worried. Dean was not sleeping well because of the pain. He didn't like what the pills did to him, so he just… didn't take them, in spite of Sam's insistence. The effect of this decision was two-fold and miserable for both of them. Exhausted, suffering, Dean was _not_ a fun Dean.

Then Dean paused, and Sam watched as he stood stock still for almost a full minute and then reached out, almost tentatively and touched the black beauty in front of him.

Dean had known from almost the beginning, as his memories came flooding back of the battle with the demon and Sam pieced together for him what happened afterwards, that even if he'd been driving the impala, nothing would have happened differently. And since there was no way humanly possible he _could_ have been driving the Impala at that point, he set his jaw and directed his anger at the demon.

Moving on was something Dean had despised since he was four years old, and yet, he'd had no choice but to follow his father's lead and learn how to do it without glancing back. Leaving – pretty much anyone or anything – still left Dean desolate in heart, but it had been so long that even though he recognized its destructive force now, he didn't know how to change it. He should have mourned the Impala – he wanted too – but he couldn't figure out how to do it without falling down and not being able to get back up.

More had been done than just damage to a car that night – what the car represented had been tarnished for Dean by the weeks leading up to the confrontation in the cabin, and in a way, starting over was a relief. One he'd never share with Sam, who had worked so hard to find him somebody else – another home – to love.

As he stood in front of the new/old car, he felt dizzy and tried briefly to decide if it was his body or his mind causing the problem. And then he laid his hand flat on the hot black metal, and while it wasn't a vision, his soul opened up for a moment as it had on past occasions – not that he'd ever told anyone – and he saw the crash as if he had been standing alongside the road when it happened. His knees buckled and an instant later he was on the ground in his brother's arms.

Sam's face was white and panicked and there was group around them in no time. He growled and shook Sam off, getting on his hands and knees and then using the car to balance himself as he stood. Sam scrambled up and demanded water from whoever was listening, trying to get an arm around him.

"Dude, get off me!" Dean's voice rose.

"What happened – somebody's getting you a drink, just hang on," Sam said, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"I. Am. Fine. Really, Sammy," Dean enunciated, swatting at Sam.

"Sure, that's why you just _fell over_," Sam hissed, even as the crowd started to disperse.

"And I'm not drinking unless it's stronger than water," he said under his breath, garnering a Sam-glare the size of Texas.

At that point, the owner of the place showed up, bottled water and folding chair in hand, and Dean gave Sam a "_you_ deal with this" look and turned his back, inspecting the car. Sam thanked the charming-but-wary Jimmy Robards profusely, and politely refused offers to call 911 or get Dean a sandwich.

In the end, they practically stole the gorgeous, mint-condition black Impala. Jimmy Robards was a man who had been sued no less than seven times by elderly or pregnant car enthusiasts who had tripped or fainted on his property, and as long as Dean and Sam signed the pretty pink accident forms (with the legal release in tiny print at the bottom), they could have the car for what turned out to be less than a third of the insurance disbursement plus the Saturn.

Dean had kept Robards on pins and needles as he turned the car inside out, but in the end, they'd shuffled the duffle bags containing clothing and weapons to the trunk of the Impala, and gave the man his money. As they left the lot, Dean pulled something from an inside pocket of his jacket and stuck it in the tape deck, filling the car with the sound of Metallica – sounds that while he hadn't missed, Sam felt surprisingly comforted by. That night Dean gave in and took the pills his brother proffered at bed time, and slept like a dead man for the first time in eight weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Note: Thanks, to my delightful reviewers especially those that managed to put fingers to keyboard for the last installment – tracer, Faye and H.T., y'all rock! This chapter refers to several things I've detailed in my (not yet finished) story Worry & Care. You don't need to read it to understand this, but if you're interested; the fight between John & Sam is chapter 5, the first section in italics & a few more bits of the hunt Sam refers to are in the last paragraph of chapter 4._

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

_

**Chapter Five**

Dean leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and let out a long breath.

"See what I mean?" asked Sam, the frustration evident in his voice, his hands gesturing at the computer screen. "This isn't your run-of-the-mill supernatural creature, Dean. Maybe this just isn't our kind of gig…"

Dean rolled his eyes and gave Sam a look. "Big Foot? How can it _not_ be? And we've seen these things – they're definitely real," he said, his jaw tightening as he remembered the bloody mess of the two young hikers they'd found.

"Well, it does appear to be more than just a legend," Sam said with a wry smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I think the issue is whether these creatures are mystical or just mythical."

"Hey, we do mythical, don't we?"

"We do mythical when there's a mystical component… and I'm not sure there _is_ one here."

"How can there _not_ be, college-boy?" Dean demanded, standing and running his hands through his hair. "Did you get a look at those things? A _whiff _of those things?" Dean growled the last sentence "It sure smelled like one of ours – can't we ever get a beastie that doesn't need hosing off?"

"Still mad because we're gonna have to run the clothes through twice?" Sam asked with a straight face. That earned him a glare from his older brother, who paused in his pacing and turned to give it to him full force.

"Doesn't matter what we're hunting – you always need an extra rinse, Sammy. Have you thought about seeing a doctor for some prescription- strength –"

"Well, there was the shape-shifter, he didn't smell. That's how I knew he wasn't really you. Guess it's a good thing you don't shower more often, I wouldn't have been able to tell you apart."

"You tryin' to get a pair of black eyes?"

"I dare you."

They stood almost nose to nose and just like Dean knew he would, Sam cracked first; breaking into the wide, boyish smile that made Dean's heart hit his throat and crash back into his stomach. When Sammy smiled, he still looked like he was about six years old – he still looked innocent and unafraid. Dean didn't see that part of his baby brother much anymore. Sam's expression these days seemed to swim back and forth between disillusionment and trying to suck it up. Both hurt Dean to the core – he'd spent a lot of years doing everything he could to protect the kid from feeling either. Sam sank back into his chair, turning to face the laptop, missing the tender smile that played momentarily across his brother's face.

Dean walked to the window and looked out, resting both arms on the ledge created at about rib height by the counter-weighted window. While he'd always liked the feel of these old windows – and they were easier by far to break in through – they offered none of the insulation of modern double-paned types and he felt a tiny pang at making Sam take the bed closest to the window last night. No doubt there'd been a chilly draft. Shaking his head, he brought his mind back to the problem at hand and when he spoke again, his voice was subdued.

"Those boys must have been terrified, Sam. Mythical or mystical, we need to do something."

Sam sighed and nodded. "It's not that I disagree Dean, really… I'm just not sure what we can do. This isn't a one shot deal – salt and burn or exorcise and banish. We have no idea how many sasquatches there are or where they live… if they live in groups at all, or are scattered all over the place. They've been around a long time, if you believe the sighting reports… but there's a pitifully small amount of actual data. _Scientists_ haven't actually seen these things more than a couple times, and most of the evidence that's been collected as been proven phony. We don't know what they eat or –"

"People, Sammy – they seem fond of people," Dean muttered, not redirecting his gaze from the parking lot below.

"Actually, I don't think they _do_ eat humans," Sam said slowly, "at least not ordinarily… there have been a lot of sightings here that didn't involve attacks…"

His voice trailed off as he leaned back toward the laptop and Dean, hearing him hit the keys at an un-leisurely pace, turned. Dean could almost see the wheels turning in Sam's head, and he grinned but stayed silent as his brother began to murmur softly to himself. Sammy always talked out loud when his brain was going ninety miles an hour.

"Hand me those autopsy reports," Sam asked, his eyes never leaving the screen. "And get out that map again – we need to mark it up with –"

"– the coordinates of the sightings," Dean finished, as he handed the stack of brown folders to his brother and grabbed a rolled up forestry service map from the corner, laying it out on Sam's bed.

"We mapped the bodies and the attacks –"

"– but not the sightings."

Sam printed a list with coordinates for the county-wide sasquatch sightings and then spread the autopsy reports out on the other bed after finding the table too small for the job – there were more than two dozen files. Dean was busy with a red pencil, checking the list against the map and making marks for the places where the monsters had been seen, but had not attacked anyone. They had been working in silence for almost a half hour when Dean finally spoke.

"Well, there's a definite pattern here," he said, standing up from the chair he'd pulled close to the map on the bed and stretching his arms over his head.

"Here too," said Sam without looking up as he sat cross-legged and leaning back against the headboard.

He didn't notice his brother chuckle at the sight – Sam looked like Goldilocks in Baby Bear's bed as he sat on the "too small" Like-A-Log bunk. Dean gave a snort and muttered "Goldilocks," under his breath.

"Huh?" asked Sam, looking up, knowing by the smirk on Dean's face that he must have missed the joke.

"Not a thing dude, really. What have you got?" Dean was all straight-faced and business now and Sam decided to let it go.

"Nobody got eaten. Not even a nibble. Wounds are consistent with bear-type claws and … well… basically being stepped on and thrown into solid objects.

"Like trees and rocks," Dean supplied.

"And some…twisting."

"Twisting?" Dean questioned grimly.

"As in to break – arms, legs… necks," Sam replied quietly. "No bites."

"Unpleasant."

"To put it mildly."

Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up to stand across from Dean, who was staring down at the map with a furrowed brow, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Sam smiled to himself. Hands In Pockets was Dean's standard thinking procedure – like Violet Baudelaire and her ribbon. Sometimes front, sometimes back, sometimes the leather jacket. It was funny the things you find comforting, he thought. Hands In Pockets meant that Dean had just about decided how to save the day, and Sam felt himself relax a little. Sure, he helped a lot more now that John wasn't with them all the time, but when it came down to it… Dean was the strategy man. The one you wanted when you planned your revolution.

* * *

And that had been Sam's fatal mistake when he decided to leave the Hunt for Stanford. Not for the first time, his mind glanced at and then shied away from the visualization of how different things might have been if he'd trusted Dean with his dreams of college and a life. Oh, they would have fought about it, (which is why Sam's younger self had shut his big brother out) but in the end (he now believed), Dean would have let him go… helped him even, and they wouldn't have lost all those years to venom and anguish. Dean would have found a way to make John see (as the good-soldier-son always did), and Sam wouldn't have lost his father either. Things were still difficult between John and Sam, and he didn't know if what had been broken could ever be repaired. 

As Sam hit high school, Dean had come between him and their father less often… letting Sam and John try to work it out. But when the argument went on too long or became physical, Dean had Sam's back and would intervene. Then Dean would drag him off and scold him for getting John riled up, and Sam would storm about Dean defending their father's idiocy. After his anger had subsided, Sam would usually end up talking about what he'd do when it was over – when the demon was gone. Dean just listened, never saying much, never judging Sam for wanting what the rest of the world had. Then came the Thanksgiving hunt that nearly put them all out of commission.

Sam stood, watching his unconscious father through the observation window as Dean signed himself out of the hospital too soon, and decided it was over for him. In a few months he'd be eighteen, he'd be out of school and he was done. If Dad and Dean were gonna kill themselves, they'd have to do it without him.

Sam had kept it to himself until after Christmas, avoiding his brother like the plague because he knew if he let Dean in he wouldn't be able to keep it from him. And he'd decided (with the foresight of a seventeen-year-old boy) that he'd rather ask his big brother for forgiveness than permission. Dean always forgave him – one of the few constants in Sam's life. The permission thing was a different story. His mind was made up, but Sam wasn't sure his resolve could withstand his big brother's emotional pressure. So Dean stayed at arm's length, despite the pain it caused them both.

The school guidance counselor helped Sam deal with late admission forms and financial aid applications and he wondered what he'd do if this didn't sort itself out (he didn't have a back up plan). What if the fates declared him a hunter by leaving him no other options? Could he accept it? With no answers, he'd spent every waking moment desperately hoping that the universe's plan for his life was different than John Winchester's.

It was January, when during an argument with his father Sam had lost his temper and told John that he was quitting the family business and going to college. Dean had been asleep (supposedly) in the other room but when he finally emerged, a couple hours after the fight, Sam could see in his big brother's eyes that he'd heard every word. They didn't talk – Sam couldn't bring himself to broach the subject and Dean...

Looking back, Sam realized Dean had probably wanted to hear it straight from him, and the blow that day had been at least as hard (if not worse) than when Sam actually left. Dean knew that Sam had been hiding things from him and avoiding him, and that was a harsh betrayal for the older brother.

As he'd analyzed himself a million times in the last few years he'd come to the conclusion (sadly) that part of his plan to escape the Hunt was about "strategizing" for himself. Dean_ would _have helped him, and yet Sam had purposely cut off his only real source of support or assistance. He hadn't wanted Dean's help, he'd wanted (for once in his life) to do something on his own and prove to his father and his brother that he could. This mixed with equal parts of terror at the possibility of their rejection and a hunger for the kind of life Dean told him existed in their home before he was born, was the emotional cocktail with which he'd blown up his family… Psych 101 said it couldn't be all his fault. Winchester Guilt ate at him anyway.

He'd loved school, loved his life there, and Jess… yet how many times at Stanford had he begged the gods to take him back to the time when Dean was there (Hands In Pockets) with how to save the world just about decided. Now, after everything that had happened in the last year here he was, watching his brother think and given the situation, there wasn't anything more comforting.

* * *

What are you seeing?" Sam asked. 

"I think I know why the Care Bears decided to stop for lunch," Dean responded, pointing to a star on the map representing an attack. "If you look at the placement of these alone, they don't make much sense."

"Yeah, we've been staring at them for a couple days now…" Sam said, trailing off as Dean pointed to the map again.

"The x's are the sightings I just marked," he tapped the map, "and the circles are where the bodies were found. Notice anything?"

Sam stared at the map, squinting to try and see what Dean wanted him to see. Then he straightened with a startled sound.

"What I see is an attack, surrounded by bodies, surrounded by sightings…" he paused and counted. "Eight clusters altogether."

"So how many little furry families do we have, college-boy?"

"Eight. This was defensive not offensive."

"Yup. Our happy hiker friends must have gotten too close. The outer rings – where the sightings happened – must be some sort of a perimeter." Dean explained, relief at finding answers surging in his voice.

"So as long as people stay away from the… the…" he floundered for a word.

"Nest?" proposed Dean with a humorless smile.

"Probably," Sam agreed. "As long as they stay far enough away from the nest, they're not a threat, and the sasquatches leave them alone –"

" – they get too close and _bam_, mama big foot goes into smash mode."

"But why arrange the bodies like that?" asked Sam, his forehead creased in concentration.

They both stared at the map for a couple minutes, each lost in puzzling out this piece of the mystery.

"Know what I think?" Dean smirked, clearly proud of whatever theory he'd come up with.

"Sure, Dean," Sam said with an indulgent smile.

"Ask nice."

"Please?"

"Nicer."

"Pretty please, oh great brother of the massive brains and brawn."

"And?"

"And cool hair and a cool car." Sam's annoyance was increasing with each compliment.

Dean grinned and gave a mocking bow. "It's a headhunter thing."

"What?"

"In Malaysia, headhunters used to put their enemy's heads on poles surrounding the village and then pile the skulls at the front gates to… discourage visitors."

Sam looked at Dean in disbelief, for just longer than a pause. "Seriously, dude. How could you possibly know that? Did you make it up?"

"You're not the only one who can read, Sammy," said Dean with a snap.

"Hey, I didn't mean –"

"I know how you meant it," Dean muttered, looking away.

"Sorry. I was just surprised. Research isn't usually your thing." Sam said quietly, trying to find a way to make it less awful than it sounded.

"Well, you were gone for _four years_, Sam. There wasn't anyone to pick up the slack on the research team but little old me," Dean replied, the anger in his voice shot through with something else that his brother didn't want to recognize. "I sort of had to _make_ it my thing."

"I'm sorry, really. For all of –"

"Save it Sammy," said Dean raising a hand in the universal sign for shutting someone up.

"But Dean – "

"No."

They stared at one another, the tension like a taut rope stretched to breaking. Sam's frustration rising at Dean's refusal to talk (even as he brought old wounds to the table), and Dean was dangerously close to betraying emotion he had no energy to deal with.

It had only been a few months since the totaling of the Impala, passengers (who weren't in great shape to begin with) still inside, and Dean had just about used up his daily ration of energy with the morning's social event. It was almost 4 p.m. and Dean was ready for a nap, not for a heart to heart with his baby brother about a past which couldn't be changed – no matter how angry and hurt he was by it.

"We've got work to do," said Dean, his voice low and measured.

Sam gave a single, abrupt nod, swallowing the tight ball of muddled emotions choking in his throat. He kept his eyes on Dean's and it was finally the elder of the two who broke the gaze.

"I understand the direction you're going with the bodies, and I think it's a good explanation. The method seems the same in each cluster and there's no way it could be a coincidence… not with all of these cases," Sam said carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral and honest.

Dean sat down heavily on one of the chairs, leaning on the table and as Sam took in the figure before him, he was uneasy with the ashen look of his brother's face. He hesitated, and then instead of speaking he got up and walked to the bathroom, returning with a pill bottle in his hand.

"I don't need anything," Dean said softly, as Sam stood before him working the lid off. "I just need us to get through this and be done with it."

Sam paused for a moment before realizing that Dean was talking about the current job and not their personal baggage. He handed Dean two pills and nodded his head at the bottle of water on the table. Dean looked up, his expression unreadable and then he tossed the pills in his mouth and reached for the water.

"Shall we?" Sam asked, and not waiting for an answer sat down at the table and moused the laptop out of hibernation.

"Sammy?" Not even a hint of provocation.

"Yeah?" Casual-like, eyes on the screen.

"Thanks."

"Yeah."


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews you beautiful people, you! The next chapter is almost finished… maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. It took me a little longer than I thought it would to wrap some stuff up so I just kept writing. I apologize to anyone who that this was an all action fic – there's more coming, but at heart I'm a sucker for character development/back story/Winchester Psychology 101, so this is what you get :) I've had some questions asked about when I'll be updating my other fics… so vote now my dears. Which one of the three I've got going would you most like to see a chapter of next? _

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I can't believe we have to wait until September 28th. That's, like, almost October! Trying to kill off your fanbase by withholding the necessary life-giving Winchesters now, are we Kripke? We'll all be practically comatose by then...unable to lift the remote in our weakened states...What is to become of us?

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**Chapter Six**

They spent the next few hours trying to sort out the rest of the sasquatch situation, going back through notes they'd taken at the historical society and old articles from the local newspaper. The earliest record of consistent mauling deaths on the mountain started about eighty years ago. There seemed to be a ten year cycle and it was always started in the late summer. The number of victims varied greatly, but now that they knew it wasn't random that wasn't a huge surprise.

From what they could tell, the beasts remained on the mountain for six or seven months. The killings slowed to a stop during the dead of winter, picked up again as the snow melted and then ceased altogether in the early spring. Then it was another ten years before it happened again. This year had the highest body count, but the total since the initial reports in 1926 was almost two hundred.

Since these were not beings with supernatural powers, the regular Winchester method of dispatch wasn't going to help much – rock salt probably wouldn't take down sasquatches. Though neither Dean nor Sam had broached the subject yet, the idea of a flat out massacre was bothering them both, especially since they knew that the creatures weren't actually hunting for humans.

Sam stood up and yawned as he stretched his shoulders out and looked at his brother. Dean was sitting on the floor with files and photocopies surrounding him while he leaned against the cabinet the television was on. His expression was one of concentration as he used his trusty red pencil to make notes in the margins of the article he was reading. As he glanced up and saw Sam watching him, he gave a half smile.

"Do my horns need a trim, or am I just too beautiful to ignore?" Dean snarked.

"Horns," Sam said, pointing to his head to indicate the problem yet keeping a straight face. Dean rolled his eyes and they shared a grin.

"Yeah, well I'll get out the shears tonight and you can fix me up."

"Ready for a break and some food, bro?"

Dean glanced at his watch and nodded. "You want to go pick something up at Carmen's?"

"I can do that – you staying here?"

"If you don't mind," said Dean. He shuffled things around some and got to his feet, shaking out his left leg which had partially fallen asleep. "I need to get in touch with Missouri about this Bennett person – I forgot to ask, what did you come up with last night, anything?"

"Not much, but if they call again it would help to know if we're talking male or female… I have some possible hits, but it's hard to narrow down without a few more particulars."

"It's a she, and she did –"

"– that call this morning?" Sam interrupted with a slightly acerbic tone.

"Great timing if you ask me," Dean smirked.

"What did she want?" Sam questioned, ignoring the smirk as he moved over to the laptop again and pulled up the information he'd saved on S.R. Bennett.

"Little cryptic – said Missouri sent her to us, and that we might be able to help each other," he shrugged, "That was about it."

"You let her off easy then?" Sam asked, puzzled.

"I told her I'd check out her story with Missouri and get back to her. Wouldn't be the first time somebody used a contact's name to draw us in."

"True. Any idea what's going on?"

"No, but she sounded pretty ragged around the edges. I'd bet money – and I'm a betting man – there's death and destruction involved."

"Since when do we get calls about anything else," Sam said quietly, and silent melancholy overtook them for a moment.

Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder only to be jostled away, so he grabbed the other chair and in a smooth movement placed it next to Sam and planted himself in it.

"Her name is Sasha Ramsey Bennett – Ramsey is her maiden name," Dean supplied.

"That's one of the people on my list," said Sam, pointing to the screen as if Dean's eyes hadn't already gotten that far.

"She has a family? And she's our age?"

"You sound surprised… you couldn't tell how old she was from her voice?" Sam asked, startled.

His brother thought for a moment before answering. "It's funny – I kept changing my mind. She'd laugh and sound young, then go all quiet and sad and she seemed… older."

Sam made a non-committal noise, a little taken aback at Dean's admittance of uncertainty.

"And the family part explains some inflection – I think there's a good chance that they're not all still alive," said Dean slowly, a grim expression on his face.

Sam's fingers began to move across the keyboard again. "Now that we have a name, and we know this is her family, we can probably find out."

Dean stood, "How 'bout I go get dinner while you take a look and then I can talk to Missouri when I get back, after we see what you can dig up."

Sam lifted a hand in farewell, his eyes not leaving the screen, already engrossed. Dean chuckled and headed for the door.

* * *

When Dean got back about a half hour later, Sam was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, face ashen. 

"Sammy – what is it?" he questioned, dropping dinner on the nearest bed as he strode to the table. He glanced from his brother's face to the laptop's screen and then sat down.

"It's bad, Dean," Sam said in a whisper.

Dean felt a tingle run down his spine and he turned his back on the computer, looking his brother in the eye. He spoke in a calm voice, unsure what was going on, trying to understand what had happened in the short time he was gone.

"Sammy, are you okay?"

The younger brother didn't answer immediately and glanced away, not wanting to discuss the roiling thoughts and feelings he was having… not sure he _could_ do it even if he wanted to. He heard Dean speak again and knew he had to respond soon or Dean's composure would slip and he'd start raising decibels.

"Sam. _Are you okay_ – what's going on?"

He looked up and met Dean's eyes, hazel and filled with unexpressed fear – and he couldn't leave him scared. Dean might complain about Sam's puppy dog eyes having the ability to force his hand, but the silent fear in his big brother's eyes made up Sam's mind every time.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I just…"

"Did you have a vision?"

"No… no… I just," Sam tried to focus on verbalization. He tried to think of a way to explain to Dean what was going on without resorting to the kind of emotional openness that freaked his brother out.

"The Bennetts… it was a demon," he started.

"**_The_** demon?" Dean asked incredulously.

"I don't think so," Sam answered quickly, "different m.o., but it was definitely not a mugging or an ordinary kidnapping. And it has demon written all over it…"

"What's the story?"

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands. Dean changed gears instantly and stood up, turning toward the food.

"Never mind – it can wait 'til we eat. Shut it down," he said, nodding at the computer, his hands full.

With another sigh (one of exhaustion not complaint), Sam closed the open files and turned the laptop off, stowing it carefully against the wall next to his chair.

Dean opened the largest sack and handed over a Styrofoam box and a large soda to Sam, placing the same in front of himself. He then took the paper bag and turned it over, dumping condiments, plastic silverware, napkins and straws in a pile between them. As Dean opened his box to reveal – no surprise – a giant burger and enough fries to clog the arteries of ten people, Sam spotted another bag on the floor.

"What's that?"

His brother grinned widely and paused mid-squirt, an open ketchup packet in hand.

"That, Sammy boy, is for me to know and for you to find out."

"Whatever," Sam said, blowing him off and taking a drink.

* * *

They ate in silence, Sam grateful that Dean's big-brother-ness had kicked in and he'd decided on dinner before demon discussion. How could he tell Dean that the brutality and horror of the attack on Sasha's family had brought up some seriously unresolved feelings for him in regards to demonic… anything. 

Since their encounter at the cabin with the golden-eyed demon, they'd laid low for the most part. Dean had a lot of physical healing to do and they both needed some mental down time as well. John was gone and not answering the messages they left for him, so they were on their own again.

Dean's Bad Patient pig-headedness calmed a little after they'd ditched the rental car and Sam had been allowed to play… not really the Big Brother, more like the… Little Brother with Extra Chores Assisting the Fallen Big Brother Hero. Sam wasn't bothered by Dean's irritability most days. It felt strange to be taking care of Dean (in some ways), yet it also (in other ways) felt like something Sam had been waiting to do his whole life.

The saver now needed the savee, and the savee was glad for the chance at repayment. It was a hard load to carry (though he didn't mean to complain), to be the one that was always watched out for – that needed shielding. It was his place in the family and had been for as long as he could remember and Dean and Dad seemed content for it to stay that way. And if being the "baby" in a _normal_ family was rough, being a Winchester baby was worse. The stuff he'd needed protecting from was quite a bit more… life and death and thus the restrictions of freedom and individual growth were a lot more intense.

For once, to able to do _for _Dean – to be the protector… it made Sam feel like they were closer to being on the same footing… closer to both being grown-ups and working together instead of little Sammy, following behind and trying to keep up. He'd spent a lot of years "tagging along" and hating himself and everyone else for it. Sam had never wanted to be the big brother, all he'd wanted was to be an equal.

When he wasn't smirking and snarking, Dean had mostly been quiet, letting Sam take the lead and make the decisions. He was just too tired and in too much pain to do anything else and both knew that was the only reason – things hadn't really changed between them. They hadn't talked about Dad, they hadn't talked about the demon, they hadn't talked about the failing and falling and misery of where they were collectively and individually. And Sam had been so busy caretaking that he'd been able to avoid thinking about it much – he understood now how the business of watching out for his family made it easy for Dean to ignore and avoid his own inner darkness. Then Sam had found the articles and autopsy reports on Sasha Bennett's family.

What he read and saw had turned his stomach and brought back the memories of the battle that night in the cabin in full-force and in color. Which brought back the trap in Chicago. Which brought back Jess. Which brought back everything. And in less than thirty minutes the hunter had been brought to his emotional knees and left paralyzed for his older brother to find.

* * *

Sam finished his roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes and green salad and stood, carrying the empty carton over to the trash and then returning to the table. The food made him feel better, that and Dean's silent company. It was like Dean simply opened a channel and his energy swirled around Sam, giving him strength and letting him rest. As long as he could remember (from his first childhood nightmare), Dean had been there, steady. And in spite of the vehement reluctance to talk about what was going on in his own mind, Dean waited without pushing and when Sam was ready, he listened to whatever poured out of his brother's head (as long as it wasn't about him). 

Returning to the table he sat, watching as Dean got up and dumped the rest of the dinner debris. He could see the tension in his brother's shoulders and Sam made the decision to be ready to talk. He would have preferred to forget it all and just go to bed… but Dean should know this stuff before he called Missouri, and Sam needed to get it out of his head or he'd never sleep anyway.

Taking a deep breath he reached for the laptop, setting in on the table and opening it up. Dean sat down and looked at him, trying to keep a straight face, trying to keep his unease from showing.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the food," Sam smiled, "especially the salad."

"Sure," Dean replied, "Still can't understand why you bother with rabbit food – but whatever floats your boat, bunny-boy," he smirked.

Sam felt Dean's teasing wash over and surround him, warm and comforting and he sighed, his stress level lowering. Those who only spent a little time with them generally found their constant heckling of one another…worrisome or annoying. But in a family where gentler expressions of concern were nearly forbidden, it worked for the brothers. It was like a secret language and regardless of how they worked things out in the future (and Sam was determined that they'd talk out their childhood eventually), he didn't ever want to lose this. The banter would stay, no matter what.

"The first thing I did was just Google her… and that brought up more than enough to get an idea of what the deal was," said Sam, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Here are the newspaper articles… they're from last Christmas. It happened Christmas Eve."

Sam clicked the print button a half dozen times and the small portable printer on the floor whirred to life. Without speaking, he grabbed the pages and handed them to Dean. Then as Dean began to read, he opened a more files, explaining as he went, trying to sound matter-of-fact and step out of the panicky, emotional place that Dean had found him in.

"So I hacked in and got the police and autopsy reports on her husband and daughter. The daughter didn't die immediately… she spent three weeks in the ICU." He paused, pushing down the chill of revulsion he felt as he remembered the graphic information he'd found, as well as Dean's demon-related injuries and recent time in intensive care. "I also got the hospital records on Sasha and… Ava," Sam hesitated as he said the little girl's name, and Dean's head came up at the hitch. He stared fixedly as Sam for a moment, but didn't say anything so Sam went on, picking up the autopsy and hospital print outs and handing them over.

"Then I checked for obituaries, cemetery and burial records, and any background information on their – Sasha's and Evan's – families." He set another sheaf of papers on the table in front of his brother, and then waited.

"Holy…" Dean's voice was soft and sickened as he turned to the autopsy photos. He glanced at Sam (whose eyes didn't leave the spot on the wall he was staring at) and then flipped to the report itself.

"Essentially," said Sam quietly, "They went out on the baby's birthday to look at the Christmas lights… they'd had family over for... Myles is – was – his name," he stuttered and then stood, pacing for a moment and then sitting down on the bed. "After everyone left, they bundled up the kids and took them out to see the lights. It wasn't late, just after five o'clock or so, but pretty dark."

"Sam," Dean offered, seeing the exhaustion and pain on his little brother's face, "I can just read these – you don't have to go into it all."

"No, it's okay… I want to talk to you about it," he looked a little abashed and suddenly found the floor interesting as he tried to get the words out. "Things have a way of getting…stuck in my head. Nightmares, stuff I read…If I share it, it becomes a less real. I can handle it better." Sam felt silly explaining this to Dean, but sooner or later his brother would brow-beat out what was bothering him so he might as well come clean.

Truth be told, he needed Dean to know this. Jess had helped some, but he couldn't ever explain anything in detail, so Sam actually had a lot of horror stored up inside at this point. And when his control broke, like it had tonight, there'd been no where for him to go. He needed somebody… he needed his big brother to get him through this.

Realization dawned on Dean as he watched Sam's discomfort. Those few words clarified a lot about the last fifteen years of their relationship. He suddenly understood Sam's incessant need to talk after they'd wound down from a hunt, and why he always gave in eventually and told Dean about his nightmares. As a small child it hadn't seemed odd for Sam to want to tell Dean about his scary dreams and fears, but as they got older Dean had been less willing to listen. And since Sam had left Stanford, Dean spent most of his time trying to shut Sam off and out, and avoid what he now termed "chick-flick" moments. Mostly to save himself the anguish of reliving _any_ of their past. If Sam had told him about this need to get it out, would it have changed things? Would he have listened? Without hesitation he knew the answer – yes.

The whole residual freaky mental energy thing was probably connected in some way to his psychic abilities – and Dean wondered just how many super powers his baby brother was going to have when it all shook down. Sighing, he set the stack of pages he was holding on the table and turned to face Sam.

"Sam, dude. If you need to talk I'm here. I'm always here. Unless I have a date," he grinned, unable to resort to straight emotional honesty after so many years of avoidance. "Seriously," he said, his voice sobering as he tried to give Sam what he was asking for. "I'm not a shrink, or a fellow spoon-bender, but I am your brother. If you need to let it out, let it out."

"It's hard to do when you keep hollering "chick-flick" at me and crossing yourself, bro," Sam gave a little laugh.

"Well, I'm not letting up on that," Dean rolled his eyes. "You'd have us on Dr. Phil in no time – but this psycho superglue stuff, the stuff you can't get out of your head? I can take it."

"Are you sure you want it?"

"No, not really. But I do want you watching my back and doing the paperwork and not curled up on the closet floor in a fetal position," Dean huffed.

Sam smiled, and added to his too-long hair and dimple, it did that thing to Dean that it always did. He was the big brother and his heart swelled. He'd do anything for this kid. Anything.

"Okay," said Sam.

"Good. Just consider me your garbage disposal."

"Sure," Sam laughed. "Any rules?"

"Rules?"

"You know, no egg shells, no potato peels…"

Dean stared at him blankly and it took Sam a second to realize why and then he grinned.

"What, jerk?" Dean questioned – he'd hated not getting the joke.

"We never had a place with a garbage disposal did we?"

The elder Winchester shook his head at his little brother's amusement and growled. "College ruined you, you know that? Spoiled you rotten."

"Sure, bro."

Dean turned back to the table, signaling the end of the conversation, and Sam came over and sat down next to him.

"This is some of the worst I've seen," Dean admitted slowly, picking up the autopsy files again.

"Yeah."

"So the husband was killed outright – what happened to the baby?"

"Never found him, never found a trace of him."

"Man. That's a lot to deal with. Everyone gone in one fail swoop."

"Yeah. It is. No wonder she sounded sad."

Sam barely heard Dean's next words and he didn't think he was meant to.

"At least we had each other."


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Sorry for the wait – especially since I promised this next chapter was almost ready to go. My cousin got married this weekend which meant 5 hours of driving each way and another 5 hours in the kitchen at the reception. Good stuff, but RL sure gets in the way sometimes! I kept writing until I felt finished and it was well over 5000 words… so I've cut it up, and I'll post the rest of it (which is totally and completely done) tomorrow. This chapter's a little shorter than the recent ones, but the majority of it is banter-related so I hope to be forgiven. Plus, you get to find out what the S.F.S.F is :) Thanks to chapter six's kind and gorgeous reviewers: Theresa, tracer, Jayme, Spuffy, Hanna and Ty. Have at it kids._

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

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**Chapter Seven**

After going over everything Sam had found on Sasha Bennett together, Dean read it again a second time as Sam took a cat nap at his brother's insistence. When he woke up, just before nine, Dean was busy at the laptop.

"What're you up to?" Sam asked, stretching and running a hand through his hair.

Dean turned toward him with a slightly sinister smile on his face. "I've solved our big foot problem."

"Really?" Sam yawned, walking over to the table and flopping down on the empty chair.

"Yup."

"Tell me."

"Alright, but first – you look like you could use a snack." Dean grinned.

"No vending machines, remember this place is like-a-log. Plus, it's 9 o'clock and nothing's open. Are you sharing your secret stash of M & M's?"

"No way!" Dean's eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling.

"I didn't think so," Sam said wryly.

"Check out the bag on the floor, you ungrateful little twerp."

Sam glanced down, remembering the extra sack Dean had brought from the café. "What is it?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Maybe you could open it and find out. And don't say I never give you anything," he said, turning back to the screen.

Pulling open the brown paper bag, Sam took out the box. "You didn't."

"And the award goes to…" Dean looked up, a half smile on his face as he took in Sam's delight.

"The best big brother in the world, of course," said Sam.

"The world?"

"Galaxy."

"That all?"

"Universe."

Dean nodded. "You got it, Sammy boy."

Sam pulled a plastic fork out of the bag and then a cardboard box. Opening it, he proceeded to eat half the strawberry-rhubarb pie with barely a pause, disregarding convention and continuing the conversation with a pastry-filled mouth.

"So what's up?"

"What's up, is that when you're done there you're gonna drive the forty miles to" – he stopped and switched windows on the screen until he found what he was looking for – "Reedsboro, and get a little work done for us at the 24-hour Kinko's."

Sam made a questioning noise, which might have been a word but was unintelligible.

"Because you're the little brother and I'm the big brother – see? It's easy, no need to play rock-paper-scissors. I say jump, you jump. Easy as – pie."

The little brother rolled his eyes at the pun and the arrogance, and the big brother kept on talking.

"I'm putting the finishing touches on the letterhead and you're good to go. I was just about to wake you up sleeping beauty – saved yourself from an ice cube down your shorts." Dean's eyes glinted and Sam could tell he wasn't kidding.

"And the plan would be… this is about sasquatches, right?" Sam asked, swallowing and looking for a napkin.

"Uh-huh," Dean nodded, his focus staying on the computer. "What does S.F.S.F stand for – it better be good or we'll have to come up with something else."

"And you're letting me take the car? Must be some plan… mind telling me what it is?"

"I'm getting us out of here without having to butcher every stinking mama big foot in the county Sammy," Dean replied vehemently and with no small amount of exasperation. "And I need to talk to Missouri, and_ I_ didn't get a nap, princess," he gave his brother a look meant to terrify and then spoke in a dangerous tone, "If that baby comes back with any complaints about your treatment of her…" he let the sentence trail off darkly.

"How are you going to get rid of them without a fight?" Sam asked, more curious than incredulous (Dean was the strategist after all). He considered asking about the Impala again, but decided not to push his luck… it'd be nice to get out for awhile and drive alone and choose his own radio station. 'Driver picks the music' only applied when Dean was driving – if Sam was driving, then the driver was ...the  
one with the silent cakehole.

Dean gave a wickedly elfin grin and Sam realized that it was Dean's _ears_ that made him look like an elf… he'd been trying to figure that out for years. Not the Lord of the Rings kind of elf, oh no. More like the Santa's workshop kind of elf. Sam muffled a laugh as he pictured his brother in red tights, a pointy little hat and curly green elf shoes with bells on the toes. Dean glared and him, so he took another bite of pie.

"What?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing."

"If it was nothing then you wouldn't be giggling like a girl – spill it, Sammy."

"Sorry, can't."

"Why?"

"It's nothing."

"Dude, whatever," Dean grumbled. "What's the S.F.S.F?"

Sam chewed thoughtfully and then asked his own question again. "Tell me why you want to know… what are we doing here?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Not funny."

"A little."

"Really."

"You started it Sammy – Mona and the rest of this Podunk town think we work for some secret branch of the government. You should have seen the looks I got on the way to Carmen's. I was hearing the frickin' 'Mission Impossible' theme song in my head!"

"Tom Cruise is crazy," Sam commented, licking his fork and closing the pie box. One of the most enjoyable ways to rile Dean was obtuseness with a pinch of random. Better than a parade. Feeling relaxed and rested, Sam couldn't think of anything he'd like to do better at the moment than rile his older brother.

"And you have room to talk, shining-boy?"

"So…"

"So the plan is, we _are_ from a secret government agency. Now what – for the love of pete – does S.F.S.F mean?" Dean had now been thoroughly antagonized and it showed by the glower on his face and the hiss in his voice. Sam could tell he was tired.

"Scientists For Sasquatches Foundation."

Dean stared at him. "Seriously?"

"Yup. Sorry man." Sam grinned and Dean shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm not sure it's official enough," Dean said a little forlornly. Clearly his plan hinged – as it often did – on sounding official.

"Do we need to put the whole name on anything? Wouldn't it be even more effective if we just used it as a bluff? Acted like it was something they should know?"

Dean thought about that for a moment and then nodded, smirking. "Good idea. Nobody likes to look dumb. It'll be like the emperor's new clothes."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You really think this is gonna work?"

"I hope so," shrugged Dean. "You're right about this not being a normal gig. We can't kill them and we can't round them up in traps and re-introduce them to the wild in a less populated area."

"You sound like a park ranger," laughed Sam.

"Better idea?" Dean scowled.

"Nope. Just tell me what to do, man... I'm with you," Sam said with a wide smile.

"Somebody is _way_ too perky."

"Testy, testy ... does Dean need a little time out?"

"Shut up."

"Or maybe a he'd like to have play dough and cheerios," Sam taunted.

"I _said_, shut up."

"Make me."

Dean looked up from the laptop, his eyes filled with warning. "Dude, I so don't have time for this."

"What, fun?"

"You call this fun? I want to get out of here sooner, rather than later – which is what _you _were whining at me about this morning – and you're really _not_ helping," Dean's voice was far from light and fluffy.

"What's up with you?" Sam asked, slightly offended that Dean, who couldn't stop cracking jokes to (literally) save his life, seemed bent out of shape over a few minutes of harassment and he struck back, "No girls to pick up here? This place too female-forsaken for your taste?"

Dean gave him a closed-off, crossed-the-line look and Sam regretted his choice of words almost immediately. Good never came from using Dean's amorous escapades in an argument. Ever.

"Actually, I'm antsy to get out of here because it sounds like Sasha Bennett could use our help – and she said Missouri thought the helping might be mutual. If this is a demon, it could lead to the one we're looking for," he paused, his voice suddenly losing heat. "That fight's not over yet, Sam. We need to move on and figure out how to deal with our own devil," the sadness in his words was underscored by set of his jaw.

Sam didn't know what to say to this change of direction and so he stayed quiet for a moment, battling inside. The fact that Dean ignored his love life comment meant something serious, Sam was sure. The child inside of him (the Sam he'd always been in the eyes of his family) felt the need for retort and back-talk and resolution… the need to question Dean and push until he showed more of the emotion glittering so close to the surface right now. Sam the grown-up (the one whose compassion for his brother out-weighed the need for competition and validation) saw the physical and mental anguish Dean was dealing with, and understood the desire lingering under the words, and understood the truth emblazoned thereon as well. He wished it wasn't always so hard to lock the first down and let the second out.

"Let's get this done then," he said simply, the gaze he gave his brother leaving out the solace Dean would not take from him anyway.

They stayed, held in this looking, for what seemed a long time and Sam realized that he'd have to cave because Dean, right now, could not. He rarely thought how much being strong took out of his big brother, but in this instant he could see more clearly than ever that it wasn't what he'd thought for so long (and what he still reverted, sometimes, to thinking). Dean was afraid. He was almost _always_ afraid. He just did things anyway. Sam had tried to understand and once in awhile nearly did, but mostly he just marveled. Today he saw in Dean… the cost. Of being strong, of holding it all together, of fighting everything all the time. It wasn't cheap. And today Sam decided maybe it was time he tried to pay his own way instead of letting his brother pay for him.

Sam looked away and then at Dean again, who nodded slowly and turned back to the computer. Finding shoes and jacket, Sam sat down next to him. "What do we need?"

"Badges, business cards, and a few sheets of letterhead – the good stuff with the raised type and heavy-weight paper. And envelopes with the official return address printed on them."

"You have a seal ready?"

"Yeah, I just took the one we usually use and added some scientific-looking stuff and then the letters," he smirked and shook his head. "You couldn't just say F.B.I., could you..."

"Sorry."

"S'okay – hand me a CD. Can you remember what we need or do I need to write it down?"

"Dude! I can remember," said Sam, rolling his eyes.

"My brother the genius," Dean purred as he burned the files Sam would need onto the CD.

Sam headed to the door and then stopped, watching as his brother stretched and the walked to over to the bed and collapsed on his back, his eyes closed.

"Dean. The keys."

Keeping his eyes closed and himself horizontal, Dean worked the keys out of his pocket and tossed them without looking. This caused Sam to scramble to catch them and he knocked one of the chairs over in the process.

"Klutz."

"Jerk."

"Just testing your reflexes," said Dean with a smile, opening one eye. "Mapquest is on the table, by the way."

Sam righted the chair, grabbed the printed directions to Kinko's and had his hand on the doorknob when Dean spoke again. He stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean."

"You know she'll tell me if you bring her back unhappy."

Sam could hear the calm threat implied in his brother's words and he sighed.

"Okay, Dean."

"Drive safe."

"Sure thing, man."


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note: This was an enjoyable chapter for me to write, and I really hope y'all find it worth the read. I most recently heard the phrase "beauty for ashes" in a song on the radio, but it's actually a biblical phrase. It seems that people either love Missouri or hate Missouri LOL. I hope I show Dean having a fair amount of discomfort/upset with the woman… and yet being willing to recognize her place in the supernatural world and the connection she has to their family. Love her or hate her, I'm betting she's here to stay in S2. Please review - it makes me giddy and muse-full when you do. This may be the last chapter of this one for a bit - I'm going to try and get chapters of my other two stories out. Thanks for sticking with me.  
_

_Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Kripke, did you know there's a petition to make Missouri a regular? What will we htink of next? You sure you want to leave us alone like this for ten more weeks?  
_

**Chapter Eight**

Dean lay unmoving for several minutes after Sam left. His chest was burning and aching and he could feel his heart beat thudding loudly in his head. Willing his heavy eyelids open, he stared at the ceiling and contemplated movement.

He figured it was almost ten p.m. and while six months ago he would have considered the night young, things changed. He could no longer stay up for nearly three days straight sustained by caffeine and adrenaline and be fine after crashing for twelve hours – he couldn't even get through a day without a nap! And skipping that afternoon rest today had not been a terribly wise thing to do.

The last 'doc-in-a-box' walk-in clinic he'd been to in order to get his pain pills and heavy duty anti-inflammation prescriptions filled, had presented him with a chance to talk to a doctor alone, without Sam hovering. He'd simply acted a little unsteady on his feet on the way out through the waiting room, scowled angrily and yet let Sam help him to a chair, and ordered the kid to go get the car. He knew that the unusual relinquishment of control – not to mention the Impala's keys – would get his brother out of the way. And Dean had parked several blocks away. He'd planned this for weeks.

As soon as Sam was out of sight, Dean told the receptionist – with a smile that turned her pink and stuttering – that he'd forgotten to ask the doctor a question and left her slightly incoherent as he walked right past her desk and through the door.

Dr. Sloan hadn't gone in to see his next patient yet and Dean caught him in the hallway.

"Hey Doc," he began quietly, "do you have a couple of minutes?"

Glancing at the clock on the wall the stocky man with silvering blond hair nodded. "Just a couple though."

Dean smiled in relief and spoke hurriedly. "All the stuff you said in there – meds, fluids, no strenuous activity," he paused. "It all makes sense… I just… don't have a job that I can take much more time off of, and it's pretty physically intense," again he stopped. Looking at the floor, he felt a little foolish and tried to decide how to go about asking a question that he now figured was probably a pretty stupid one. Doctor's had always had this effect on him – although female ones were easier to handle – the brave and unflappable Dean Winchester felt like a kindergartner when he dealt with medical professionals and he hated it.

"Mr. Tomlinson – Dean?" he went on as Dean nodded acceptance at the use of his first name. "Best case scenario is that you'd have a full year of rest and rehabilitation before you went back to work – construction you said?" Again, Dean nodded. "This was a very serious injury – I've rarely seen the like and I've been at this longer than you've been alive. Most people do not survive the kind of mauling you experienced, period. To say I am amazed that you are where you are physically after only twelve weeks would be an understatement. You've healed incredibly quickly, and while it sounds like your energy levels are lower than you are used to, you don't seem to be having nearly the amount of pain or muscular weakness I'd expect to see," he stopped and looked hard at Dean for a few seconds.

"I guess what I'm trying to figure out is how serious my condition right _now_," he took a deep breath and looked Dr. Sloan straight in the eyes. "How much damage am I going to do if I go back to work at this point – long term and short term."

The doctor looked irritated "I'm not sure what you want me to tell you. Should you take more time to heal before going back to work? In my medical opinion, yes, which is what I already told you and your brother. However, if you insist on working… you would need to be particularly careful. Continue to rest more than you usually would, stop if your injuries become too painful, and be sure to stretch and exercise regularly. You'll probably live. The most important thing you can do is not over-exert yourself, and no one can really measure that except you."

"So I can go back to work, I just need to be careful?" Dean asked tentatively.

Sloan almost rolled his eyes. "That's a slight simplification. As long as you stay within the limits of what your body is able to handle, there should be no long-term negative effects – although you'll likely have severe discomfort. The problem comes in when you push your body too hard, too fast. It can set back the healing, reopen internal wounds and cause serious complications or even death," he said sternly.

"Can you give me any ideas on how to do this safely? I don't actually have a death wish," Dean smiled wryly.

"Your brother indicated there wouldn't be a problem with you recuperating fully…" the doctor trailed off and waited for Dean to supply an answer.

"Sam wishes it were true and he's tried to make it possible – he's done a good job of taking care of me," Dean said, a little ruefully. "I haven't made it easy. I don't exactly handle overprotection…well."

"I can imagine," said Sloan with a chuckle.

"But he knows as well as I do that I need to start… working again. There are things that need to be done – things that have been put off too long already because of this," Dean said, pointing to his chest, the inflection in his voice a strange mixture of steel and exhaustion.

The two men regarded one another for a moment and then the doctor pulled a prescription pad from his pocket. "Well, this is what I recommend. Listen to your body. I get the distinct feeling that's not something you've done much of in the past. Eat better and more regularly, sleep more – get a lot of naps, don't skip your vitamins. You said you've been to a physical therapist – take your exercises and stretches seriously. Up the number of repetitions as you're able to. Avoid physically demanding activities other than work – no hunting," said the doctor with a smile.

"What?" Dean said in a strangled whisper.

Sloan shook his head, "I wouldn't suggest another encounter with a bear for awhile, son," he said kindly.

Dean visibly relaxed as the doctor's meaning became clear, and he grinned. "Right. Avoid unnecessary wildlife."

"You've got pain medication, anti-inflammatory drugs, and I'm going to add a couple of things," he said as he wrote. "This is for sleeping," he paused as he saw Dean's expression. "Something against sleep aids?"

Clearing his throat Dean met the doctor's gaze. "I don't like not being able to wake up."

"And the last time you slept through the night, was?" questioned Sloan. When Dean didn't answer, the doctor harrumphed. "You came to me, remember? If you want to work without killing yourself, you need to sleep, son. Your body can't heal without rest, especially if you plan on taxing it even more while it's in this weakened state. I don't think you can do what you're planning without some changes in regimen." Dean nodded, and the doctor sighed at the stricken look young man's face. "I promise not to suggest anything I don't think you absolutely need – nothing that would actually be on the safe side," he added with a little sarcasm. "You don't need them all the time, just when you can't sleep and you know your body says it has to. Alright?"

"Thanks, Doc," said Dean quietly, concentrating on the Anatomy of the Shoulder poster on the wall. The older man's fatherly tone was getting to him – he had a hard time dealing with reminders of what normal family relationships were like. Even the smallest things could trigger a flood of painful emotions, and every time Sloan said "son", Dean flinched internally.

"Has anyone suggested a multi-vitamin? Something with extra iron to help deal with the blood loss? Anemia could be part of the reason you're so tired all the time. You lost a lot of blood is sounds like. That can take quite awhile to recover from."

"They gave me some – a prescription when I left the hospital, but I ran out…" he looked at the floor. "It was expensive."

"Well, I won't give you this one then," the doctor smiled, crumpling the paper slip and pocketing it. "Any drugstore will have pre-natal vitamins, those will do fine."

"Pregnancy pills?" Dean's head shot up and he gave Sloan a look of horror and incredulity.

The doctor laughed deeply and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "They've got extra iron in them. If you'd rather you can get a regular multi-vitamin and some separate iron pills." The look of relief on Dean's face was almost comical and the doctor smiled. "Take care of yourself young man," he said as he reached for a chart from the holder on the wall and put a hand on the exam room door.

Dean was staring down at the prescription in his hand, yet not seeing it. Dr. Sloan watched him for a moment and seemed to change his mind about something. He replaced the file, reaching back into his pocket for a notepad. "I realize you're just passing through, son," he said quietly, and Dean kept his head down but raised his eyes to meet Sloan's. "But if you ever need help, give me a call," he tore off a page and handed it to Dean. "This is the number of my answering service. They can reach me day or night," he paused, trying to read the somber look in the young man's eyes.

They both heard the raised voice in the reception area and Dean grinned. "Mr. Overprotective is back with the car," he smirked. He turned to go and then looked over his shoulder, "Thanks, Doc," he held up the prescription and the phone number. "For everything." And then he was gone.

As Sloan watched Dean walk out of his office, he sighed. The kid reminded him of his own son, Michael, dead now some ten years. He'd be Dean's age. But his interest in the young man was more than that – there was something tragic and needy and courageous about the Tomlinson brothers. They didn't ask for it, they didn't want it, but they could certainly use a break, he thought to himself. Dean wouldn't be likely to ever call, Sloan knew that and still, he hoped that he'd have the chance to see the Tomlinsons again – and give them a break if he could.

* * *

Dean eyed his jacket, which he'd tossed casually on the dresser earlier. The eight feet between him and the pocket holding his cell phone seemed equal to a little hike up Everest at the moment and he cursed himself for not grabbing it before he lay down. He took a couple of breaths as deep as he could – which wasn't very deep at this point – and stood in one motion. He crossed the room, and returned to the bed with his phone in hand. He rested another couple minutes and then dialed Missouri's number without needing to look it up.

"Dean, honey?" Missouri answered.

She probably had caller ID, but it still made Dean shiver a little when she answered like that. He hadn't gotten used to being a close associate of a bona fide psychic. And then there was Sam. He didn't have a chance to slam the door on that train of thought – though he would have – as he heard her voice again.

"You there, boy?"

"Uh, hey, yeah. I'm here. Sorry."

"Not a problem, just making sure you're not dialin' half-dead and I need to send the cavalry after y'all," she chuckled softly at her own wit.

"We're okay, I just needed to call and check something with you –"

"Sasha reached you, did she?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to be sure you sent her and it wasn't –"

"Smart thinkin' – don't want to fall into a trap. She's alright, but you can't be too careful these days," she praised him in agreement.

"So – what's the deal? Why did you –"

"Oh Dean, love, this girl _needs _you boys! And I dare say there'll be something that's a boon for you too," she stopped, waiting.

"Can you tell me a little more about –"

"Well, it's best you hear her story straight from the horse's mouth I think, and you know that I can't predict the future, sugar… I just see you two – three – bound together by something," Dean caught the slip and the cover up but didn't say anything. "Some of it's small stuff, quickly done, and some of it may… go on awhile," she said, hesitating. "Just see what happens and try not to push her away – there's something you and Sammy both need from her."

Dean was thoroughly puzzled now. He hated these creepy, abstract, intangible fragments of prediction that Missouri was brilliant at offering. "Is there anything I need to know before we get started? We're just about done with this gig and ready to –"

"Nothin' to worry about, nothin' you can't figure out by your own selves, baby."

He sighed in frustration. Missouri said she couldn't _exactly_ read minds, but he never got a complete thought out when having a conversation with her, so it seemed to him she could read minds _sort of_ and it weirded him out big time.

"Sorry to cause you distress, honey… Missouri will try and remember to let you talk it out next time, alright?"

Dean rolled his eyes, and scowled as the woman on the other end of the line laughed.

"Your face'll stick that way if you don't quit," she murmured.

"Thanks," he muttered, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice "I'll keep that in mind."

"Mighty welcome, child – always glad to give a little advice to a lost soul," she replied, her amusement evident.

There was a pause on both ends of the connection.

"Okay, well… appreciate the information. We'll keep in touch."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you watching your brother?"

"What?" Dean asked, startled.

"Sam might seem just fine, but that poor boy is in trouble – and it's not the kind of trouble you can go shootin' down with a silver bullet."

"What do you mean?" Dean demanded, sitting up on the bed, alert.

"Just watch him Dean. Remember that big brothers are for more than just watchin' your back during a demon fight," she paused and her tone changed to one of disgruntlement. "Your daddy taught you boys a lot of good, but there's a reason a child needs a mama too," she stopped, and resumed with a thoughtful voice. "Give a little consideration to what your mama would'a done for Sammy when his girl got killed right in front of him. Your baby brother's lost a lot – you both have – and your daddy's way of dealin'…" she stopped. "It ain't no way a healthy one." She sighed, "Now, I'm not meanin' any disrespect, child – I think you know that. I love your daddy like he was my own brother. Which is why I'm tryin' to help you boys from ending up exactly like the sad, sorry man that he is – bless his soul. Sammy won't ask you for help, Dean, but he's gonna need it all the same. He can only pretend he's all healed up for so long, before it takes a toll and the damage to his heart can't be undone," she stopped, silent and waiting again.

"What do I need to do? What am I looking for?" Dean's voice was almost a whisper, and the panic and grief inside him threatened to break him into a million pieces. What Missouri was saying was something Dean knew already, something he'd been trying to push away. Something he prayed – to the god his mother taught him of in their four short years – would just evaporate like a banished spirit and leave them in peace. And what Missouri was saying was that it wasn't going to happen. Sam needed saving of some sort, and Dean was the only one who could do it. As this hit home, the dampness in his eyes faded and he gave a scornful laugh. What's new. Story of my life.

He didn't resent Sam needing him – it wasn't that, it was _never_ that. But the battle in the cabin had changed Dean in a way he couldn't even explain to himself at this point, and well, if he was Sammy's only chance at healing and survival… they were pretty much up a creek. The endless energy and strength that had made Dean Winchester nearly indestructible up 'til now wasn't something he could just… call up anymore.

It still appeared at times, but Dean was scared nigh unto death that he wouldn't ever be able to find that place inside himself again, and without it – whatever it was – he couldn't see a future and he hated the past. The tangibility of who he was and what he wanted had flown out the window when the Impala was destroyed, and he had yet to figure out how to get it back. He knew Sammy needed him, and he kept trying, but he was empty… the bucket was empty and he didn't know how to fill it up again. And you can't give a dying man drink from a bone-dry bucket.

"Dean?" Missouri's voice was quiet and filled with a compassion that could only come from someone who could read the anguish in the young man's thoughts. "Sugar, try not to worry. Ain't no use worrying about what's not here to fight yet – it's not time to jump in the river and pull him out yet. You know I don't know everything, but Missouri can tell you this – there are more chances for light ahead of you, then there are chances for darkness… more chances for bein' whole than bein' empty… more chances for beauty than ashes."

Dean could almost feel the warmth flowing through the phone, as she continued, and while it was a little eerie, he began to feel strangely calm.

"Watch Sam, try to give him what he needs. And keep an eye out for your own mendin' place, boy. It's been a long, long time since you were open to feelin' much of anything, darlin' and your little brother won't make it through this – and neither will you – unless you can find the grit in that lion's heart of yours and let all that love and pain you've got bottled up inside you… out. There's a place for you, sweet child – a place where you can rest. It may not be an actual house, but there's a place. And if you can heal, then you give our Sammy permission to do the same. He won't let healin' in because he watches his big brother and his daddy hold on to all their hurt so tight… and he thinks it's the only way to survive. It'll _kill_ him Dean – it'll kill you _all_ – faster even than that demon. Dealin' with what goes on in your soul is not without its own price, honey, that's why most avoid it," she gave a hollow laugh. "But your options are pretty near gone now. You need to look at what you have deep down in your insides or next time you turn around you won't have any insides left to look at."

"Use it or lose it?"

"Sorry to say, boy… sorry to say."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note: **__I can hardly believe it's been more than a year since I left this story. I won't bore you with all the details, except that by way of explanation, I have two kids now instead of one! Life is very, very good and very, very full. Cross your fingers for regular updating . . . with this story and the others I've been working on, as well as some branching out into (gasp) other fandoms. I have thoroughly enjoyed Season Three but this story is now officially AU although I hope to connect back up with canon now and again. This chapter is dedicated to my firstborn son, Nate, who will be six months old in a couple weeks. I love being the mother of a boy!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I'm not making any money or any trouble here. _

**Chapter Nine**

At dawn they were in the parking lot where the trailheads for a dozen routes through the dense Washington forest were located. The moved quickly and quietly, removing supplies from the Impala in the semi-darkness in silent tandem.

A 4x6-foot wooden sign on huge poles dominated the end of the gravel lot at the tree line, carved with a basic map of the area's trails. Beside it was a small cedar-shake shelter with a bulletin board under it, and a Plexiglas box containing a sign-in/sign-out sheet for hikers.

They covered the bulletin board and the map with plastic banners Sam had gotten printed at Kinko's (Sam had been ready to head back to the motel when Dean called him with the order at about midnight). Then they split up and hit the individual trailheads, hammering a wooden-staked sign in the middle of each path at the head and then again about a dozen feet in.

Meeting back at the Impala at about the same time, they got in and Dean drove them through the entrance and parked the car on the road just outside of it. The old gravel lot had a partial log fence around it that was about four feet high. At the entrance it had a two-sided swinging gate, which from the dirt and weeds around the base hadn't been closed in ten or twenty years. They each took a side and finally had to resort to getting their grave-digging shovels from the trunk to loosen enough debris and vegetation to get the gates to budge.

By the time they got the gate closed, chained shut and plastered with another plastic banner there was more daylight than they preferred for this type of job, and they were considerably dirtier than they had planned on being.

"So much for being out of here by ten," muttered Dean.

Sam glanced at his watch. "Yeah, it's quarter past nine. You hungry?"

"Starving."

"You get the suits ready and I'll run for breakfast?"

Dean snorted in disbelief.

"What?" Sam asked, giving Dean a blank look.

"What."

"What's the problem?"

"I don't iron."

"Yeah? Well maybe _**I**_ don't iron either," Sam grumbled.

Dean raised his eyebrows and smirked unrestrainedly. "You've got to be kidding me college-boy. You spent how many years as a preppy-lawyer-wanna-be? Unless you had some girl doing your laundry for you (which I doubt) or your part-time burger flipping paid enough to send everything to the cleaners – "

"I didn't flip burgers Dean, I interned at a very **good** law firm, and interns don't get paid – "

"I rest my case – no pun intended," Dean grinned.

Sam glowered out the window, his mouth compressed tightly in irritation as they turned into the Like-A-Log's parking lot. He immediately got out of the car and slammed the door, yet Dean's last words carried just fine.

"Dude. You _**so**_ iron."

By the time Dean walked back from Carmen's with Denver omelets, biscuits, sausage, bacon, ham, hash browns and short stacks (the combo wasn't called "The Universe" for nothing), Sam had managed to retrieve their suits from the trunk and done a half-way decent job of making them look un-slept-in.

"Nice job, laundry girl," Dean said as he admired Sam's handiwork. "Good thing you're work's up to snuff or no extra jelly packets for your biscuits this morning," he chuckled.

Sam rolled his eyes and reached for one of the jumbo-sized coffee cups, taking a careful a sip.

"Uh, Dean? You should've checked the order. I'm not giving you my coffee for the orange juice," he said, setting the cup back on the table and reaching for the other one.

Dean scowled. "Can't a guy have orange juice?"

Sam choked on the biscuit he was eating. "You ordered the orange juice?" He mumbled through the crumbs with incredulity "On purpose?"

"Hey, twerp, you're always telling me to eat something healthy. What's the big deal?"

Stunned into silence, the younger Winchester simply stared at his brother while he finished chewing and then swallowed. "Well, they still forgot your coffee…" he trailed off, waiting for the thing possessing his brother to show itself again.

Dean sat down at the table and busied himself with butter and syrup, avoiding Sam's gaze nonchalantly. "I didn't order coffee, Sam. I'll get some on the way out of town."

"Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

Frowning, Dean looked at Sam and spoke with some force, "Look, I just felt like orange juice… normal, every day, orange juice! You know, good with eggs, all-American breakfast beverage, I don't know what the..." he trailed off, his voice faltering a little, "… big deal is."

"Okay man," Sam shrugged, holding up his palms in defeat.

In less than an hour they'd finished eating, printed out their official documents and packed the car. Sam went to check them out of Like-A-Log while Dean waited in the Impala, psyching himself up for the long drive with a little heavy metal.

As Sam headed toward the car, Dean lowered the volume of the music and rolled down his window.

"Hey; walk or drive?"

"Let's take the car – faster getaway possibilities," he grinned.

They cruised down Main Street and Dean parked out front of their first stop.

"You have the paperwork, agent?" Dean smirked.

"Right here," Sam replied, tapping the front of his suit.

"Okay then, go get 'em tiger…" Dean encouraged and stood back so his brother could walk in front.

Sam rolled his eyes and set his jaw seriously as he opened the door to the sheriff's office, cringing as the bells above the door jangled their arrival. The deputy at the reception area eyed them curiously.

"We need to see the sheriff," Sam intoned ominously as he placed both hands on the desk in front of him, causing the rail-thin young man in front of him to jump slightly. "Could you tell him we're here . . . Deputy Lowder?" he finished, peering at the black and white name tag on the kid's uniform.

"I-I'll get him for you," rushed Deputy Lowder, and stumbled toward his boss's office.

"Nice touch with the name," whispered Dean admiringly.

"I learned from the best," Sam whispered back with a grin.

Their second stop went even more spectacularly than the first. With Sheriff Crockett in tow, they marched into the mayor's office to apprise him of the S.F.S.P's determination that the area be shut down until further notice due to the top secret and dangerous nature of their findings.

The mayor didn't fuss much; his bluster was pretty well stopped short by the badges. His final concerns about the manpower needed to lock down the area were eliminated by Dean's dark and mysterious "It's been handled"—including an impressive cocking of one eyebrow—and the Winchesters were on the road again.

"We want _west_, Dean."

"No, Sam – Montana is _east_ of Washington, duh. Couldn't they have slipped a little basic geography into that fine education of yours? You know, something _useful_?"

"Fine. You want to spend a couple extra days doing 40 mph on the back roads, be my guest. But _I _am _so_ not the one walking for gas this time."

"Whatever. Montana is east. We've got to hit an interstate at some point."

"No, Dean, we don't. At least not for a week or so."

"Oh yeah? I must have missed you winning the Mr. GPS of the Year crown. How was your walk down the red carpet? Mind showing me your wave? Dude, you get lost every time we go to a _mall_!"

"And the fact that you don't doesn't make you feel the teensiest bit girly, bro?"

"What can I say? I've got serious mountain man instincts when it comes to finding –"

" – pretty young things to track, hunt and drag back to the hollowed out log you call home?"

"Maybe," Dean smirked.

Sam rolled his eyes and rested his head against the window, and without another look at his brother pulled a handful of folded pages out of his jacket pocket, tossing them on the seat.

"What?"

"I Mapquested Montana, Dean."

Dean snorted and shook his head emphatically. "Directions? I don' need no stinking directions, man," he growled and then grinned like a mad man and turned up the volume on the tape deck.

Four hours later Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced at his brother for the tenth time in half that many minutes. Sam was huddled under a blanket in what couldn't possibly be a comfortable position, snoring lightly, and oblivious to the grim expression on Dean's face.

Another minute passed and Dean reached stealthily towards the folded print out which rested on the black leather between him & Sam. On second thought, he drew back and adjusted the stereo – not too much louder, but loud enough to check the depth of his brother's sleep. Sam's eyes opened a slit at the increased noise.

"Yo'okay?"

Dean smiled, "Just fine, Sammy."

Sam grunted and shifted against the door until he was comfortable enough to drift off again. As soon as he was sure Sam was asleep, Dean continued to turn up the music in small increments until he was positive that it would mask what he wanted it to, and then reached again for Sam's directions to Montana.

The drive to Havre, Montana, was about 16 hours according to Mapquest—about half a day of hard driving with a Winchester at the wheel—If they'd left Forest Edge earlier in the day, but they hadn't gotten out of town until about 1pm and Dean's four hours in the wrong direction cost them some serious time. It didn't take him a full 4 hours to find a connection and get them back on I-90 East toward Havre, but he woke Sam up again to drive about 10pm and it was quarter to four in the morning when Sam made an executive decision about where to stay and pulled into the parking lot of the Havre, Montana's Best Bed Motel.

Dean barely stirred until Sam had finished dragging their stuff inside and opened the passenger door.

"Why'd we stop?" he mumbled.

"We're here," Sam answered quietly as he guided his partially conscious brother through the darkness toward room 17. Closing and salting the door behind him, Sam sighed and tossed his jacket on the bed unoccupied by his brother's face-down form. He was tired, but he was also worried about how hard Dean had been pushing himself and was glad they'd made good time and would have some time to sleep in a bed before they meet their newest contact.

Sam pulled pajamas out of their duffle bags for them both and brought Dean water and some pills. Dean made no effort at conversation and by the time Sam had finished brushing his teeth, Dean was curled on his side, sound asleep again. After briefly considering spending some time on research, Sam decided to skip it and after turning out the lights, was asleep almost as quickly as his brother.

Sam woke to the sound of Dean's voice, low and muffled by the bathroom door. Pauses in the conversation led him to conclude Dean was probably on the phone and since he couldn't make out what was being said, he just lay there are listened to the comforting cadence. As a child, he'd fallen asleep more times than he could count, even after terrifying and traumatic experiences, to the sound of his brother's hushed voice. Even now, he felt drowsy and safe, knowing Dean was nearby—Dean who was so often his only source of shelter in the storm they lived in.

While Dean could fall asleep at the drop of a hat and slept like a log unless there was a dangerous (or interesting) reason not to, Sam tended toward wakefulness and didn't fall deeply asleep with ease. There had always been more than enough to think about, or to worry about.

Without warning, Sam felt a wave of nausea wash over him followed immediately by a brutal stab of pain behind his eyes. He groaned and struggled upright, managing to pull himself into a half-sitting position again the wall at the head of the bed. He heard Dean open the bathroom door and opened his eyes for a fraction of a second before everything around him went blindingly white and hot.

_Sam could smell the cinnamon candles burning on the mantle. A couple was curled up together on the couch, where they had fallen asleep with the television on. His eyes had just begun to adjust to the dimness of the room when the smell of sulfur hit him strong and stinging. His eyes went instantly back to the two people on the couch, just in time to see the man's eyes snap open; black and iridescent._

_The man gave a throaty growl as his gaze wandered over the room and fixed on the woman next to him. At the sound she began to stir. "Judd?" she questioned groggily. In one movement he stood, knocking her away from him, and she landed on the floor against the far wall, at least unconscious._

_Images melted and swirled and Sam felt a cold, wet wind against his skin and had to fight the desire to panic at a very real-feeling sensation that he knew wasn't real._

_The high, bright moon was the only light in the clearing. Demon-smell was strong and so was that of damp, decomposing foliage as he tried to get his bearings. His vision twisted and undulated, searching for some semblance of clarity and he could hear nothing. The silence made the slushy dream-world seem more terrible and then, like a skipping record hitting the end of a scratch, the sound blared loudly around him. First the amplified sounds of a forest at night; owls, howls and insects, and then ten long seconds later, he heard the kind of crashing ruckus which indicated a high-speed hunt through a heavily wooded area in the pitch black. _

_It had been many years since he'd been on the listening end of that sound—not since he was young enough to have to wait in the car while Dad hunted with Dean or Bobby or whoever. He felt anxiety spinning in his gut as he peered through the dimness which was silvered by the slick of the fresh rain reflecting the moonlight. At first he thought the sound was coming from behind him, but it cut to silence twice more before he pinpointed that they were to the right of his own position just outside the perimeter of the open circle, and getting closer to the clearing with each instant._

_When they burst into the clearing the noise was thunderous and he immediately recognized the demon he'd first seen in this vision, with himself and Dean close behind. The fight was fierce and the bizarre soundtrack which alternated between deathly silence and demon's maniacal taunting mixed with the agonized sounds of Sam and his brother fighting for their lives made him feel sick and dizzy._

_He didn't want to watch and as he turned gaze from the battle he caught sight of a figure directly opposite where he stood. Instinct told him it was a woman, but his sight couldn't confirm it. She was behind the tree line, hidden in the darkness of the night and he leaned forward automatically, peering through the murky light, trying to catch a better glimpse. Then the scene faded to black and searing pain shot through his skull again, leaving him alone, drifting in nothingness._


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's Note: **__Hopefully this last long wait for an update will be your last and I'll be writing more stuff, more frequently now. Chapter 11 is almost done—two chapters in one week, how does that sound as restitution for my neglect of you my dearies?_

_**Disclaimer: **__Just me, telling stories._

**Chapter Ten**

Dean knew he would never get used to walking into a room and finding his brother writhing in tormented supersensory overload. It was not something he particularly enjoyed, and it seemed to be increasing in frequency at an alarming rate. He hauled Sam off of the floor where he'd landed in his thrashing, trying to keep him from hurting himself and holding him as much as he was able.

"Gained some weight, bro," he muttered under his breath as Sam unconsciously seemed to do his best to shake Dean off of him. The minutes passed by and Dean kept an eye on the cheap digital alarm clock on the nightstand. He'd found a pattern in Sam's visions—one that gave him a sense of management, an illusion of control. The length seemed to be the same, almost down to the second. Although he hadn't been in the room when this one started, it'd been a minute and half since he first looked at the time, which meant that it couldn't last longer than about one more.

Almost as soon as he'd thought it, Sam went limp and Dean eased him gently back onto the bed, pulling the thin motel coverlet up around his little brother. In a stride he was across the tiny room and into the first aid kit for a bottle painkillers. He ripped the cellophane wrapper off of the plastic cup on the bathroom counter and let the water run cold for a moment before filling it and depositing both items beside the bed. Grabbing the ice bucket, he locked the still unconscious Sam in and headed down the hall to the ice machine in the lobby.

Sam was stirring three minutes later when Dean returned to the room, and as he approached the bed Sam struggled to sit up.

"Take it easy," Dean said quietly, setting the ice on the floor and moving pillows so that Sam could lean more easily against the wall. Sam didn't speak and they went silently through what had become a routine in recent months. Dean helped him with the pills and the water, then made an ice pack from a bathroom towel and settled it under Sam's head and neck. Then he turned out the lights and went for food, giving the pills and the ice a little time to work.

At first, the visions were painful but the associated problems weren't as intense. According to Sam, as the visions had become clearer and more detailed the after-effects had increased in strength as well. It was hours now before he felt himself again and he was always glad when a vision came while they were stopped at motel as the nausea was pretty awful during the first half hour after he was "back". Dean was a very unhappy man when circumstance forced him to detail the Impala's interior. He preferred a leisure afternoon of primping and shining the car, something that he thoroughly enjoyed when it did not involve the smell of throw-up.

Dean was back in about an hour, with a non-greasy lunch purchased from a deli six blocks away. He'd sat at the counter and flirted with Jayedee (who was hot and blond), giving Sam some time to get over the initial nasty feelings the visions brought on. The smallest sound had his little brother reaching for the trashcan when the episode was over, and Dean had learned it was just better for everyone if Sam had forty-five minutes at the inside to let his stomach settle. Dean and the Impala had discovered this the hard way.

Sam ate the soup and sandwich quietly, and Dean didn't push him. As always, Dean was on edge waiting for the description of what his brother had seen and heard in his vision, but Sam came out of these things first, sick and second, ravenous. A little patience—as irritating as it was—seemed to go a long way in this situation.

"You want that pickle?" Dean asked in a casual voice, trying to coax a smile from his brother.

"Knock yourself out," Sam replied, gesturing toward the jumbo whole dill pickle in the Styrofoam box on the night stand.

They chewed in silence, Sam trying to glue together enough of the vision to give his brother a coherent report, Dean just waiting to hear what Sam had seen so they could try and work out what it meant.

As Sam finished a handful of the chocolate chip cookies Dean could resist adding to the order as he paid, the words began to tumble out and the brothers attempted to sort out the clues. The clue to _what_, was always the overwhelming question, and this time was no different. The visions didn't often include the Winchesters and when they did it wasn't pleasant. This was no exception.

Sam outlined the first part of the vision; the couple in their living room, the possession of the man, and then recounted the battle in the wooded clearing.

"What did the forest look like?" Dean prodded, "Where do you think we were?"

"I don't know . . . I guess it was more Eastern than Western. I don't think there were many evergreens, mostly hardwoods. I think I was standing next to a maple."

"Could you tell what time of year it was?"

"It was cold, but there were still some leaves and a lot of bushy ferns . . . early Fall I'd say. September, maybe October if we really were back East. New York or Vermont—some place like that I think," Sam said wearily.

"What about us? I mean, did we look any different? Clothes? Weapons?" Dean asked, the wheels turning.

"I don't think there was anything different about us . . ." Sam trailed off, lost for a moment in the remembrance of what he'd seen at the end of the vision—what he wasn't even sure he'd actually seen.

"Is that all of it?" his brother asked.

Sam hesitated a moment too long before answering, unsure if he wanted to bring up this last point when he felt so unsettled about what it was he'd seen. "Yeah."

"Spill it." Dean demanded.

"What?"

"That thing—whatever it is—that you haven't told me yet."

"How do you know there's a thing?" Sam challenged, ire up immediately.

"You have that look," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"What look?" Sam asked with a scowl.

"You've got that, there's-something-I-haven't-told-my-big-brother look on your face," Dean snapped. "Come on, Sammy. It's harder for me to keep you from getting killed when you won't tell me the whole truth."

Sam fumed. "That's not fair, Dean," he said, standing up and beginning to pace, in spite of the remaining vestiges of vertigo.

"Yeah, well life's not fair," Dean shot back as he stood, arms crossed in a bull-headed stance.

They stared at each other unyieldingly for thirty seconds before Sam let out a long sigh and sank into one of the flimsy chairs at the room's table. The visions stressed them both out and it seemed that after one, their banter often turned fierce. Dean grabbed Sam's water bottle from the bedside table and handed it to him—as much of a peace offering as the kid brother was going to get.

"The longer you hold out the more obvious it is that it's important, Sam, so just tell me already," Dean said quietly, trying to mask the helpless desperation that the visions always pummeled him with.

"I'm just not sure about what I saw or how it fits into the rest of it—and as these things go, this one wasn't terribly obvious as far as where we need be and what we need to do," Sam said with another sigh.

"Well, there's a demon. Probably wants to possess people to kill other people. We gotta get rid of it. Pretty much like always, right?" Dean said, wryly.

Sam gave him a half smile and leaned forward with his head in his hands. He still wasn't feeling all that great and it had taken a lot of energy to tussle with Dean.

"At the end of the vision, I saw someone else in the woods."

"With us?"

"I couldn't tell. They were across the clearing, in the trees on the other side and it wasn't easy to see that far in the dark. Plus, I was distracted by us being almost slaughtered."

"Almost is better than totally, Sammy," Dean smiled.

"Yeah, well, I didn't see the end . . . I can't be sure we didn't."

"We haven't lost a life-and-death fight yet, have we?" Dean smirked confidently.

"The first time you lose tends to be the last time you lose at those stakes, Dean," Sam said with an edge of frustration in his voice.

Dean was a serious hunter, but the way he talked about it would hardly convince you of that. It took great control for Sam to remember that what Dean said and how Dean felt were usually two different things. He'd spent his life trusting his big brother's skill and intuition, yet it was easy to see the bravado as arrogance and arrogance scared Sam. It got people killed, and the possibility of Dean's death had terrified him since he was old enough to understand how likely it was to happen when they worked in the family business.

Regardless of how quickly he acted, Dean wasn't careless . . . he weighed risks at lightning speed and he decided what was most important. Sometimes keeping himself alive just wasn't at the top of the list, and Sam hated that. All of this bubbled up inside Sam when Dean got cocky about the work they did, and he had to struggle to remember not to fall for it. Not to believe the words he heard Dean say and instead trust what he knew Dean would do when it all came down to blood and fire.

Sam leaned wearily into the table with his head in his hands, and without a word Dean reached for the ice bucket, dumping the rest of the melting ice and resulting water into the plastic motel tumbler and set in front of his brother. Gratefully, Sam took a few swallows and as the tension between the two eased off again, Sam felt himself coming back from the vortex the vision had created for him, physically and mentally.

They discussed the vision in earnest for a few more minutes, Dean skillfully helping Sam to pull out bits and pieces of the vision that Sam hadn't even realized he'd seen. Then Dean stood abruptly, staring at the clock.

"Is that thing right?" he asked, not waiting for an answer but reaching for his coat and his gun.

"I think so—what is it?" Sam asked.

"We were supposed to meet that Bennett lady about twenty minutes ago. I was just done talking to her on the phone when I heard you hit the floor. I totally forgot about it."

Sam stood, mostly steady now, and had his shoes on in a few seconds; fast enough to be right behind Dean when the elder Winchester headed out the door.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **_A long chapter for you! I feel like I've almost hit a stride again and I hope you can see the point of this chapter--it's transitional in nature and important to the story. Thanks to Ty and Chinakat for the reviews and as for the rest of you, please review—you know what it does to a fic writer to not feel the love! Good, bad or confused, let me have it!_

**Disclaimer: **_Just on summer vacation with them._

**Chapter Eleven**

"Where are we meeting?"

"The inn she's staying at is open for dinner and she said she'd make us reservations. It's a couple miles out of town, just off the highway."

"An inn? Are we dressed alright?"

"I didn't ask, but this ain't exactly a ritzy town," Dean commented, waving a hand at the small-town-USA streets. "I don't think the booming metropolis of Havre has a lot of fine dining establishments. Besides, we've got ties in the trunk."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother and changed the subject, knowing this topic would never receive serious treatment from Dean. While he liked the idea of _costumes_, Dean Winchester preferred jeans and t-shirts over anything else and nothing short of pursuing a monster would get him dressed to the nines.

"So what did she say when you talked to her?"

Dean paused long enough for Sam to turn and look at him, but the expression on his older brother's face was unreadable.

"Dean?"

"Not much," Dean finally answered. "I told her we'd looked into what happened and we were willing to meet and talk about working together."

"Did she say anything more about what she might have for us?"

"Nope, we didn't talk long. I figured it'd be better to do details in person."

Sam nodded and turned to look out the window as they reached the edge of town and the landscape became emptier. Dean drove for several more minutes and then turned off onto a dirt road. Thirty seconds later they were in a ten-space gravel parking lot in front of an impressive three-story Craftsman-style house.

"Wow," Sam exclaimed, "Great house."

Dean snorted as he got out of the Impala. "Yeah. Probably haunted. The pretty ones always are—it's like a requirement." They grinned at each other and headed up the walk.

The entry-way was empty except for a small desk with a sign on it, asking them to please wait for assistance. They'd been standing in the dim, simply lit foyer for only a few moments before a tall man in his mid-thirties joined them.

"May I help you?"

"We're meeting Sasha Bennett for dinner," Dean said, his voice low and professional.

"Yes, she told us she'd be having guests. If you'll follow me to the dining room, it's right this way," said the man cordially as he turned to lead them through a door on the left.

The dining room was not large, and had probably been two rooms originally. Windows lined two walls, there were less than a dozen tables scattered throughout the room, each set for two to four. About half the tables were occupied by couples, one had a family with parents and two sullen teenagers at it, and at a table against the far wall of the room, near a window that looked out on the side yard of the inn was a single woman, gazing out at the dusky evening.

The Winchesters didn't have much time to size her up as it was only a few strides from the doorway, through the small maze of tables to the one Sasha Bennett sat at. At first glance, she appeared fairly ordinary. She wasn't plain, nor drop-dead gorgeous. The phrase, 'pretty enough' had time to pass through Dean's mind and then they were there.

"Your guests have arrived, Mrs. Bennett," the man smiled, standing back slightly so that Sam and Dean could seat themselves.

"Thanks, Tom," Sasha said, and then he was gone.

As Sam and Dean settled into their chairs, the three appraised one another and it was Sam who spoke first.

"I'm Sam," he said, extending a hand across the table. Sasha took it briefly and smiled.

"It's good to meet you," she said, accepting Dean's proffered hand as well.

"We're sorry if we made you wait," Sam said, nodding at his brother to include him in the apology, "We had some unexpected business to deal with."

"Not a problem—I'm just glad you came," the woman answered with genuine gratitude. There were a few seconds of slightly awkward silence and then Sasha spoke again. "Would you like to order first and we can go from there? Dinner is my treat, and the food here is excellent."

After they had ordered and the waiter had poured their ice water, there was a quiet moment of expectation and then Dean spoke.

"We're sorry about your family."

Sasha seemed a little bit startled, but she quickly recovered. "Of course you would have done some investigation after we spoke . . . thank you," she paused and then continued, "I'm sorry for your loss as well. I realize it's been many years . . ." her voice trailed off and she gazed out the window to her right. "I don't think the loss ever completely goes away though," she said quietly. She seemed lost in reverie for only another instant and then she took a deep breath and turned back to the Winchesters. "You're not here for old news, though. You're still looking for the demon that killed your mother and I want to know what happened to my son. Missouri said you're the best, and I hope we can help each other."

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and then Sam cleared his throat. "We'll do what we can," he said softly.

Sasha nodded slowly, seeming to size up their characters with just a look. "Let's eat and then we can talk somewhere more private."

* * *

"Private" turned out to be Sasha's suite on the top floor of the house. There were no elevators, and so after the Dutch apple pie that the inn's chef was famous for they started up the three flights of meticulously restored (yet squeaky) walnut stairs.

The banisters and the stairwell walls were made of solid panels, and carved with the simple geometric designs made popular by Frank Lloyd Wright. While Sasha and the Winchesters were all in good physical shape, the stairs took a toll and there was some definite—though quiet—huffing and puffing by the time they reached the highest landing.

The rooms she'd taken consisted of a bath, bedroom, and sitting room, which were tidy while clearly being inhabited.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Sasha said easily with a little shrug of her left shoulder. It was small and natural enough movement and yet it caught Dean's attention and he paused at the doorway as Sam headed toward the sofa. He thought he'd seen the gesture before, but he couldn't place it. Sam's stare brought him out of his reverie, yet even as he walked over to join his brother on the sofa, he watched Sasha out of the corner of his eye as she slipped out of her shoes and settled herself in an overstuffed chair the color of her eyes—the color of a Kansas summer sky.

* * *

Sam leaned forward, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and sighed deeply. They'd been talking for several hours now, and Sasha had opened by pulling out piles of research and going straight into discussions of demonic patterns and how to read them. Deciding to take a break, she had gone downstairs to find something for them to eat. Leaning back, Sam watched Dean stand and stretch, touching the low ceiling.

"So, what do you think?" he asked his older brother, his voice deep and tired.

"I wish we hadn't gotten into this," Dean growled, prowling the small room with his hands in his pockets.

"What?" Sam asked, sitting up straighter. "But it sounds like she's done a lot of research, Dean. It may not have been the yellow-eyed demon that killed her family, but she has some pretty good ideas about how the underworld works and how to hunt demons."

"I know," Dean sighed, running his fingers roughly through his hair. "But I don't know if we can help her Sam, and she deserves some closure." He paused at the window which looked out at the gardens behind the house and leaned against the frame, watching the darkness.

Sam raised his eyebrows, staring at Dean's back. "She's got leads and you don't want to help because you're not sure we can help?" Dean didn't turn around, and Sam made a sound in his throat and then shook his head. It was almost as if they'd reversed roles and Sam felt confused and irritated.

"That's not what I mean, Sam," Dean said darkly.

"Yeah, well that's what it sounds like, so why don't you tell me what you mean?"

Dean was silent for what seemed like an age and then he spoke quietly. "It's easier when we don't know the details . . . when it's just a job. I mean, we know the victim is some poor soul who probably didn't deserve to die a nasty death, even if they had their vices, someone who left people who loved them behind. We even talk to the survivors, pretend to console them, pretend we're gonna go find out what—who—killed the one they love and bring them back peace . . . but the reality is they're never gonna see us again, Sam. And if they're _lucky_, they won't _ever_ find out what really happened."

Sam was staring at the floor now, a cold stone sitting uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. He completely understood what Dean was saying and it was something that bothered him frequently about the work they did. General lies—the ones that didn't hurt anyone—he'd gotten used to those years ago. It was the ones they told the families, hooking them on the promise of resolution in order to get the information necessary to vanquish whatever evil had crossed their path . . . those were the deceptions that still pricked his conscience.

Yet it wasn't often that he saw Dean concerned about it and Sam wondered what it was about this case that had struck his brother so forcefully. It was true that they didn't usually take so much time to work with the survivors of a demonic attack, and after having spent the evening with Sasha Bennett, Sam too felt the pull that came from wanting not just justice and safety for someone, but to give them answers . . . and to somehow make things right. Maybe that was all this was with Dean, too. Too often in their business they let people down, and that was harder to deal with when it was someone you were actually working closely with—someone you'd have to talk to about it afterwards.

"We need all the help we can get," Sam said softly, not raising his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean nod, the movement one of resignation. When Dean spoke, his voice was dark and steady.

"She's put together some good groundwork and some decent guesses about what the demon that attacked her wanted," he said, walking back to the couch and sitting heavily next to his brother. "The geo-thermal stuff seems pretty crazy, but it fits the pattern."

"No kidding," said Sam, an eyebrow cocked in appreciation. "The topographical theories are way beyond even what Ash was working on."

"She didn't say anything about having help—do you think she's this smart?" Dean asked quizzically.

Sam rolled his eyes at his older brother and Dean raised his hands defensively.

"Just asking."

"Someday a woman's going to overhear you, dude and you'd better hope she's slow on the uptake or slow to swing," Sam muttered.

"Aw, Sammy—you know the chances of finding a lady whose brains and brawns match mine are next to nil," Dean smirked, "I'm not worried about my eyes being blacked any time soon."

Further discussion of Dean's chauvinism was cut short by a fumbling clatter at the door. Sam's lanky stride was there in an instant and opened it to reveal Sasha's attempt at keeping a tray steady between her hip and the doorjamb while working at getting the loose, antique glass knob to cooperate.

"Can I take that?" Sam offered.

"Got it, thanks—you can make some space on the coffee table though," Sasha said with a smile, and the brothers moved quickly to clear the computers and files from the gleaming walnut surface.

Sasha knelt at the low table to deposit the bounty and then sat back on her heals, letting out a long breath.

"This place has a lot of stairs," Sam commented with a smile.

"No joke—I've definitely lost some weight and gained some muscle in the last week," Sasha grinned back.

Her face was flushed a little from the climb and as she tucked a few loose, dark curls behind her ear and leaned forward to begin unpacking the food she'd brought, Dean had again the strange prickling of his senses . . . the same feeling of familiarity with her movements.

* * *

They sat in comfortable silence as they ate, and as the snacking wound down it was Sam who began the conversation again.

"The work you've done to track the demon is impressive," he said, his voice neutral. "You must have good resources."

Sasha gave a brittle smile, not shying away from the polite yet obvious inquiry. "I've lived my whole life in a world of money and connections, Sam," she said with a short, humorless laugh. "I used to spend my time and energy on charity balls and first class travel. For the last six months I've used what I have and who I know to hire expensive scientists and gain access to private collections of manuscripts and mystical artifacts."

Her voice grew quieter, and her eyes focused on her hands as they rested in her lap. "Evan and the kids were all the family I had left. When I couldn't accept the 'random act of violence' explanation . . . when I started to look, to believe . . ." Her voice trailed off and after a moment she raised her eyes to Sam and Dean, her gaze trying to find purchase in the Winchester's understanding. Then Sasha looked away and she took a shallow, stilted, breath. "When I started to believe in the tangible darkness—the kind that you hunt, I wasn't very quiet about it to begin with. I was almost out of my mind with grief for Evan and Ava, and terror for my baby."

Sasha stood and began to pace, her arms folded tightly in front of her, unable to stay still as the memories filtered into the story. "I alienated my high society friends and acquaintances pretty quickly," she said with a derisive smile. "Gratefully I shut my mouth before anyone thought to have me committed, and word gets around like lightning when it's time to strike someone from the social roster for their mental instability." Letting out a deep sigh, she sank into the straight-backed chair at the desk. "It blows me away when I look at a calendar that it's been less than a year since the attack . . . since I started looking for Myles." Her grief was still raw and raging, and it could practically be seen billowing off of her like smoke from a damp wood fire.

Sam finally broke the reverie, his voice low and gentle in a way that reminded Dean inexplicably of their both their mother and their father. "It must be hard," he said.

He watched as Sam's words reached through Sasha's pain, and wondered at it as he didn't often have time to do. It was Sam who had the soft touch with the moms and sisters and girlfriends of the victims they avenged. Dean teased him for it, called it Sam's "girly intuition", but in truth there were many times that he envied his brother's ability to handle the emotions of others—to engage them and know what to say to make things better. While he tried to avoid acknowledging the existence of his own feelings or anyone else's, it wasn't that Dean couldn't see them—he just didn't know what to do with them.

Dean could comfort Sam. He'd be raised specifically to do just that and no matter what the situation, Dean was nearly always able to see what Sam needed and deal with it. As for helping himself, or for anyone else, the emotions he saw when he looked at others (or when he looked in the mirror) were like a black, yawning well. He had to pretend not to see so he didn't lose his balance and fall forever.

"What do you want us to do?" Sam asked Sasha, his eyes and voice steady.

She didn't answer right away, but when she did, it was Dean she looked to instead of Sam. "I need to know what happened to my son. If there is even a chance that he is alive, I have to find him." She shuddered slightly as she continued, "I still have a lot of nightmares about the attack . . . and I always wake up with the same thoughts running through my head—did they take him? Did they want him for something? Are they hurting him?"

Sasha's voice now took on a chilled, dangerous quality that Sam and Dean had heard before and they glanced at one another instinctively. They'd heard it in their father's voice when he spoke of catching the yellow-eyed demon that had killed their mother and in the voices of dozens of others over the years whose lives as hunters of evil had begun with the supernatural death of a loved one.

"I _**can not bear**_ knowing that my little boy may be terrified, tortured and alone. He was a baby—it was his first birthday." Her voice faltered and the next words were whispered as she closed her eyes and turned her head away, "He'd never spent a night away from me . . ."

A moment later she had control of her emotions and again her gaze found Dean. "Help me find out who this demon is. Help me find Myles. I can pay and I can help—you will have me as a resource for money and information as long as I live."

It was Dean who finally looked away, looked to Sam, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"We aren't bounty hunters," Dean said, his voice sounding loud and nearly harsh in the breath-holding stillness of the attic room. "We don't get a paycheck for what we do." He watched as Sasha bit her bottom lip and he could see the fear of his rejection in her eyes, of losing her best chance at survival, at saving the one she loved. His jaw tightened at her pain—pain he knew too well and he continued, blocking and rushing the emotion. "But we'll do what can to help you find your demon, and we appreciate you sharing anything you think might help us find ours."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **_As you may have noticed from the start date of this story, I've been out of the loop for quite awhile. I've met some great new writers in the past week and am catching up on my old favorites and I'm so glad to be back! This chapter does have a little excitement in it (though not at all what I expected to be writing—Muse wrested the story from my hands), but the next chapter will be a Hunting chapter, so those of you hanging on for some action will finally get it—thanks for your patience! Please remember that your reviews are the only way I know how you feel about the story and I write much faster under the influence of feedback :)_

**Disclaimer: **_Gratefully, Kripke lets us borrow them without paying royalties or I'd be in debtor's prison (and I'd have to be scratching this out on the walls)._

**Chapter Twelve**

It was after two o'clock when the boys headed quietly down the stairs and out to the Impala. Their agreement to join forces had finished the discussion for the night and there was little to be said as Dean drove them back to the Best Bed Motel. Both of them were weary and they had more than a little bit to process from their meeting with Sasha Bennett.

Sam had the key out and the door opened to their room before Dean had finished locking up the car and neither felt inclined to speak as they got ready to sleep. Sam emerged from the bathroom with the over-the-counter pain killers (they tended to save the heavy stuff for post-hunt trauma), and after unscrewing the lid and taking a few for himself, he held the bottle out to Dean.

"You want some?"

"Sure," Dean replied, holding out a hand and catching the toss easily. Choosing his own dosage, Dean set the bottle on the night stand and leaned forward with a deep sigh.

Sam sat down on his bed, mirroring his brother's exhausted posture; elbows on knees, head bowed, hands loose.

"So how are we gonna do this?" he asked.

Dean was quiet and unmoving for a few moments, finally sitting up straight. "I don't know," he said, staring past Sam's shoulder at nothing. "Let's sleep. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Sam gave a nod and watched silently as Dean pulled himself under the covers and hit the switch on his bedside lamp. Then he watched as his older brother thumped around half-heartedly and came to rest on his stomach, one arm tucked tight against his chest and the other resting ready under his pillow.

* * *

_He knew he was dreaming, and he didn't like it. His favorite kinds of dreams were the ones he didn't remember when he woke up. Now, fantasies were a different kettle of fish altogether—he'd slip into one of those anytime he could find a spare moment. But fantasies you controlled and dreams you didn't, and that was the hallmark difference. He'd wondered since he was a kid where dreams really came from and refused to believe the common "just your subconscious working things out" theory. He knew they could be supernaturally and psychically induced, but most weren't . . . most just snuck out from some crazy no-man's-land and played their vicious, taunting games. _

_Dean's experiences with dreams fell into two main categories. Sadly, normal stuff like walking the halls of high school naked, or having your teeth all fall out, or turning into an elephant and trying to fit into a phone booth to call Michael Jackson for a lunch date were not on his list. Instead there was "death and destruction" or there was "the ways you'd screw up a happy life if you had one". Neither one woke him up on the right side of the bed._

_He slowly became aware that this self-reflection was taking place in a field; there was green grain up to his knees as far as the eye could see. The sky was blue and the land rolled gently upwards to his right. The air was warm and not quite still, and smelled like growing earth. It felt exactly the way he imagined a dream **should** feel—a good one, the kind he didn't get._

_Then the air stirred and changed cool, bringing with it a different smell. It was the bitter, dirty scent of something burning and as a thread of smoke rose in front of his face he automatically looked down to see the ground beneath him charred and disfigured. There was no heat, only whipping cold that he felt both inside and out. There were no visible flames, but the circle of ruin at his feet was steadily expanding, eating away the young plants, turning the air around him blurry and acrid. He tried to move, but he couldn't. It was as though he was chained to the ground and as the thought passed through his head he could suddenly see the leg irons around his ankles._

_Panic expanded in his chest and he looked up, trying to think, trying to see a way to stop the scorching, a way to escape the desolation that seemed to have started with him. Through the deepening acrid haze he saw a figure on the rise to his right and he immediately began shouting, trying to catch the attention of whoever it was, desperate for help—to break out of this circle of death. As the person on the hill turned towards him, still too far away for him to make out any details, another thought struck him hard as stone and he started to shout again. While it wasn't hurting him, he knew instinctively and with certain agony that everything and everyone this cold bane touched, it would kill. The last thing he wanted was to get someone else trapped in the circle too—what if it was a kid? What if it was Sam? _

_The flameless scourge increased its pace and reached the bottom of the hillock twenty yards away in a matter of seconds. In spite of his hollering and gesturing __for them to stay back, to run, the figure was moving towards him and he closed his eyes with a strangled groan as they approached the edge of the verdant grain._

_He expected to hear a sound as the withering ring and the person on the hill met, and when he didn't he opened his eyes, searching the smoke for signs of life. It was a woman, he could see that now, her face obscured in the dirty light, and she was standing perfectly still at the burning edge. It took him a moment to realize that there __**was**__ an edge—it had stopped at her feet and wasn't moving anymore._

_Dean watched in stunned fascination as she crouched down and gently brushed her palm across the singed soil, tousling the papery remnants of the plants with the tips of her fingers as if to soothe the ravaged dirt and withered stalks. She raised her head toward him, but he still couldn't see her face and when he followed her glance downward again a ragged gasp shuddered through him. Her hand still rested lightly on the ground, but the ground was no longer dry and lifeless—short green spikes had risen a few inches above the dark, crusted surface. His eyes panned the burned-out circle, and all around him a full foot into the outer rim was bursting with re-growth as quickly as a time-delayed photograph in fast forward._

_She stood and stretched an arm toward him, reaching out, and then started to walk slowly towards him. As she did, the haziness in the air began to clear a little and each step she took left lush, tall, rustling grain in her wake. The chill of the desolating fire ebbed from his ribs and now she was only ten feet away. The figure stopped and again reached for him, and he wanted—with an unbearable longing—to touch that hand, he wanted it more than almost anything the universe had ever put in front of him before._

_Her hand dropped and Dean tried desperately to move, and finding that the shackles imprisoning him were looser now, he wrenched at them as hard as could, irrespective of the pain and the blood, a deep sob crumbling in his chest. He had to get free; he had to get to her. He knew without doubt that she could save him, he'd watched her stop the fire he'd started, watched her heal the damage he'd done . . . he needed her. _

"_Help me," he finally called in anger and anguish. "I know you can help me," his voice shook and he extended his own hands is supplication, as close to pleading as he'd ever been; as close as he'd been in the cabin, in the moments before and after that when he'd been on the precipice between life and death and losing who he loved and who he was._

_The sky was clear and blue again now, and only the air directly surrounding the woman in front of him was still murky. It was as though she had pulled the poisoned fog inside and what was left swirled through her, purified by her very being._

"_Please," he whispered, and the desire to get to her struck him with such force that he forgot his binding and tried to take a step. The sound from his throat was raw and tears sprung to his eyes as his knees hit the ground, hard. Stabbing pain __sliced through him from ankles to hips, pooling stingingly in his hands has they tried to stop the fall._

"_I can't—" Dean groaned softly, sitting back on his heels, his arms wrapped around his knees. He knew he couldn't hear the words out loud, that they were coming from inside his head, and still he knew it was her. There was no voice to recognize, it was just a whisper, just the words clear and bright as a full moon, and fine as vapor._

"_You have to want me. You have to believe. You must come the rest of the way. This is all I can do—"_

"_I can't—" he growled with finality, misery and grief seeping from his core._

"_This is all I can do without you," the words shimmered blindingly in his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement and looked up to see the woman before him sink to her knees, the mist moving in liquid-like eddies around her body. He did want her—and even though he couldn't formulate words to describe it, he wanted what is was she was offering. Could it be real, this absolution and safety that flowed from her like life itself? Could his want become belief? Become enough to reach her? _

_Belief had been hard for him since his mother died. He thought about it sometimes, about believing in something other than what he could see, what he could kill. His mother had taught him about good and light and yet almost every day since her death had been touched with darkness. He always ended his considerations of belief—of faith—as undone puzzles. Boxed them up and put them away as more than he needed to know. More than he wanted to know. But this moment, this woman . . . she asked him to believe and finally he glimpsed again the part of himself that knew what believing meant._

"_Tell me what to do," he breathed, feeling fear grip his insides like steel vices yet keeping control of it. He wanted her and he wanted to believe but he couldn't see a path. The cloud-concealed figure held out both hands; a gesture of willingness and desire and the words sounded in his mind full and thrumming as a beating heart._

"_Belief is risk. Love is risk. Want is risk. I've come through this fire. It is all I can do without you."_

_Now he felt a surge of frustration. He'd risked his life constantly for years—he wasn't afraid of risk, he was trapped and bound; that was why he couldn't move. "Just tell me what to do," he shouted, "How do I get out—how do I get to you? I'll take the risk if you tell me what it is."_

"_You have to want me. You have to believe."_

_He felt the rage at his helplessness and desperation begin blind him and when his eyes focused again it was on the wispy shape of her hands, outstretched for him alone __and something released inside him. Something that had saved him before—saved his brother too—from sure death. The unbreakable will of his spirit and its knowledge that good __**would**__ win. That __**he**__ would win. That his skill and yearning and rightness were enough and that he had to **move** to in order to live._

_He stood, the intensity of the pain in his tortured his limbs tempting him to stay down, and took a deep breath. The smell of the warm, rustling field reminded him of home, of his mother and Sam and he took another breath, deeper than the first; as much as his lungs would take. The woman in front of him was still kneeling, her body quiet in the silence that surrounded them both. The force drawing him to her felt electric and with his eyes on her he unthinkingly took a step—and was loosed. _

_The air crackled and everything went white as he fell through space until he could no longer judge distance or time or consciousness and then it stopped._

_Dean was comfortable. His mind lazy, his body relaxed. He couldn't think of a reason to move, but he took stock just the same out of habit. He was flat on his back in the grass, birds talking, sun just warm enough on his face. His head was resting on his arms and his eyes felt deliciously heavy, as they did after a long sleep. Slowly, he became aware that he wasn't alone. There was a woman next to him, her head on his chest, her arm loose across his waist. He knew that he knew who she was and why she was there, but it was more work than he wanted to do, to remember. _

_He felt her raise her head, could feel her looking at him and then heard the smile in her whisper as she touched his jaw with the back of her hand; "You believed."_

* * *

Dean felt like a sleepwalker. He'd remembered the dream in detail when he woke up, and the whole thing was sort of weirding him out. Sliding into consciousness this morning he'd felt as safe and at peace and he had in a lifetime and yet as he'd lain in the dank light which filtered through the musty Best Bed curtains, those feelings had quickly turned to puzzlement. It was still so vivid, and reviewing it in his mind brought back the physical sensations and emotional responses he'd experienced during the night.

"You okay?" Sam asked as he exited the bathroom, roughing up his hair with a cheap, dingy towel and startled to see Dean in bed but awake.

"Yeah," Dean replied, stretching and sitting up with a yawn and a smirk. "Just waiting for you to finish powdering your face, pretty boy." He felt more sore and exhausted than he had in a week and he wished he didn't have to get out of bed today. Sam would probably have a heart attack if Dean suggested "resting"—oh, a happy heart attack of course, he'd been harassing Dean about the need to take it easy for months now—but not having options bothered the big Winchester brother. He'd rest when he wanted to and not because anyone else decided he had to.

There'd never been room in John's world for his sons to have many choices. With or without cheese at McDonald's was about as far as he'd bent. Dean obeyed (pretty much) without backtalk (most of the time), and since that was more than Sam was willing to do after he turned, say, _seven_, Dean felt a certain pressure from John to behave as his dad needed him to. To not need without permission. And yet underneath the fear of loss and the desire to please his remaining parent which kept him in line, Dean was the epitome of a free spirit.

The hunter's lifestyle had worked hard to exorcise the living daylights out of said spirit, so Dean's craving for autonomy had been disguised for as long as he could remember. What he ate, if he slept, and the music on the Impala's tape deck were his few real pieces of control. Even now, Sam's patting and fussing raised his hackles, yet still, even without his father around, he was caught between wanting to please—wanting to make the choice that would keep the world upright—and wanting to do whatever it was he felt like doing. It was a strange wrestle.

Dean leaned forward and put both palms on the bathroom counter, dropping his head and rolling his neck several times. Then he raised his eyes to the mirror assessing what he saw. Tired. Bed head. Scars. Turning on the shower he sat down on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for the water to turn hot. He rested his elbows on his knees and began to drift, his gaze coming to rest unfocused on the chrome towel bar next to the door.

The dream was so real. The sky had been so blazing blue—the way he imagined Technicolor movies looked to theater-goers after all those years of nothing but black and white. And the way the green grain had smelled; it reminded him of driving through the Midwest during early summer, the roads making straight pathways alongside the fresh fields and the windows rolled down, the rush of air scented with growing life.

He was startled as the now steaming water began to billow the plastic shower curtain and it smacked him across the shoulders. Standing, he glanced towards the mirror again, his outline, barely visible through the fog brought the woman in his dream to mind with a jolt. Rubbing his face hard with his hands to banish the ghost he sighed deeply.

The hot water burned away the cobwebs in his head and eased the aching in his bones and as he became more alert the pictures in his head seemed oddly more distinct. Usually dreams faded as you woke and except for the nastiest nightmares, they were all gone by breakfast. This one didn't seem to be going anywhere and Dean's gut writhed slightly as he began to wonder more seriously about its nature and source.

There hadn't been anything frighteningly supernatural about the experience, aside from the fire-less fire . . . that and the woman was wearing more considerably clothing than his usual dream girls. He'd been waffling, but those deductions decided it—no need to tell Sam. A faceless woman in a field, no matter what she'd made Dean feel, was not worth giving Sam the chance to delve into his big brother's psyche.

What _had_ she made him feel? As the increasingly tepid safety of the shower water stormed around him, it was easy enough to close his eyes and let himself go there. First there was the confusion of the situation. Then fear and pain, and then desperation, and then she came to him.

And next? Deliverance and absolution and rest like nothing he could remember. Rest. There hadn't been much of that in the past twenty or so years. When his family took breaks from the constant travelling and elimination of evil it was of the cat-nap-one-eye-open variety—and they were always looking for the next job. Dean made a hard sound in his throat that might have been a chuckle in other circumstances. The Winchester boys hadn't been raised to know what the word meant. Palm trees? Drinks in a pineapple? Waking up warm and clean and fed with no one to run from and nothing to kill?

Yet it was eerily easy to call it up now—he could smell the fresh grass beneath him, the warmth of the sun through his jeans and t-shirt, feel the weight of her head on his chest and the splay of her fingers flat between the hollows of his ribcage. As the scene replayed itself in his mind he strained, as he hadn't in the actual moment, to see beyond the woman's misty disguise for any clue as to who she might be.

Then he gasped as the water turned ice cold and cursed the people in the room above with food poisoning and ugly children. Introspection, over.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Author's Note:**__ So I promised action in this chapter. I tried and tried to get the boys to cooperate. They said they were tired. They said it was summer and they deserved a break. They moaned about the weather. Then they blamed it on the muse. Regardless of whose fault this is, I've written nearly 7000 words in the last month in an honest attempt to get you to the next party scene and I'm giving up and updating anyway. I've left this chapter long (Sam & Dean suggested y'all might accept it as a peace offering) and I really, really think that we'll be fighting a demon in the next chapter. Please review—it thrills me to the tips of my non-steel-toe-booted toes._

_**Disclaimer:**__ If I had steel-toed boots—they're very cool—they'd help me defend myself from any anti-fanfiction officials coming to burn my manuscripts. Since my closet is full of flimsy shoes, this disclaimer is to let them know that I know I own nothing and to reiterate that I'm not getting paid for this._

**Chapter 13**

As he emerged from the bathroom, his hair dripping rivulets down the back of his neck, Sam stood from the rusting chrome and vinyl chair at the table.

"I thought I'd go get breakfast and bring it back here—that okay, or do you want to come?"

"By all means, bring the food, Jeeves," Dean said in accent of mock aristocracy. "The usual seven courses—and I think I'll take it in the garden this morning," he grinned, slouching into the chair Sam had just vacated.

"As you wish," Sam smiled back, and with a crisp bow he headed out.

* * *

The September morning was cool, with the steamy promise of a hot Indian summer day to come. As Sam backed Dean's sleek black car out of the parking space in front of room 17, he sighed happily. He'd driven the Impala more since the accident—if you could call being nearly obliterated by a demon-driven Mack Truck an accident—than he had in the entire first 23 years of his life combined. He considered himself a good driver, but a lack of traffic infractions wasn't Dean's measuring stick for the driver of his car, as evidenced by the number of tickets written on the back roads of America to internationally famous rock stars with Dean's photo on their driver's licenses.

At the next stop sign he rolled down the window, savoring the still, fresh post-dawn air. There was barely any activity this early on a Saturday morning. The Best Bed was about 6 blocks south of Main Street, so Sam turned left at the next intersection and headed in that direction. "Nice little town," he thought to himself and then smiled, shaking his head. Nice Little Towns tended to have some of the most supernaturally horrific secrets in his experience.

He took his time, driving the city center drag, exploring some, his mind wandering over the past few days and the encounter he and Dean had had with Sasha Bennett. Dean has seemed oddly rattled by their contact with her, and he wondered what it was about. His brother was just not someone who got spooked easily and Sam was curious and a bit unsettled after their conversation in Sasha's room the night before.

As for his own take on the woman, he liked her. She was intelligent, she could take a joke, and there was a wisdom about her that he recognized as the kind that only came from living through the worst kinds loss and suffering imaginable. He'd seen it often in the world he'd grown up in—Bobby, Caleb, Ellen and Jo, Sabrina and Vincent. His dad too, although Sam had spent most of his life too busy being angry and disillusioned to give it any heed. And try as he might to keep it hidden Dean had more of that sage sense than almost anyone and it had had been expensive.

There was also a sense of softness and strength about Sasha that Sam had rarely encountered and he wondered about life with her husband and kids. From what he'd seen, _getting_ the children wasn't an automatic qualifier when it came to good mothering and over the years the few mothers he'd met seemed to have had their personalities magnified by the addition of children to their lives. If they'd been kind and had good self-esteem to begin with, their passion and determination was magnified. Those who'd started out with a bad attitude tended to ruin their kids for life. Granted, when it came to actually having a mother, his experience was limited, but there was something about Sasha that reminded him of Jess's mom. A generosity and gentleness, which could turn to steel when defense or discipline was necessary.

Pulling into a space in front of Helga's Home-style Dinette, Sam yawned and stretched, then headed inside. The aroma that hit him as the jingling bells above the door tolled, whispered home and not for the first time he felt a pang at the knowledge that except for his time with Jess, roadside hash houses had always served as the Winchester family breakfast nook.

He examined the menu, ordered three combo platters, a half dozen cinnamon rolls and some coffee and as an afterthought a large orange juice for Dean. Did he care why his brother—the one who felt non-carbonated and non-caffeinated beverages were blasphemous words on menus everywhere—had started drinking OJ in the morning? Well, yeah. But he knew Dean wouldn't tell him if he asked and wouldn't ask for it if it was offered, so for now Sam would order it and Dean would drink it and they'd pretend that Dean being normal, was normal.

Taking a seat at the counter near the cash register, Sam watched the breakfast rush bustle along and as he did his mind wandered back to Sasha Bennett. There was nothing she had said or done to indicate it, but he had an inexplicable feeling that there were things she was leaving out of her story. They might or might not be important, but if he and Dean were going to work with her, that would need to be addressed somehow. It's not like you could politely say "Hey, my heebie-jeebies are acting up, what aren't you sharing?" It wasn't as though he felt like _she_ was sinister . . . just that there was . . . more to her than met the eye.

Gracia the still-sleepy waitress began to load his order into a couple of plastic take out bags and gave him an over-worked-and-underpaid smile, "Do you want a drink holder?"

"Sure, that would be great," Sam replied easily.

"Grape jelly, ketchup, hot sauce and salt? Silverware?" she asked, her voice muffled as she rummaged under the counter for the items.

"Yes to everything—and could I get some Ranch dressing too?"

Her eyes rose above the battered Formica and she gave him a strange look.

He grinned a little sheepishly, "My brother eats it on everything."

"Fifteen cents extra per cup," she sighed, disappearing beneath the counter again.

"Better take a half-dozen."

Sam carefully set the drink tray on the passenger side floor of the Impala and packed the 2 bags of food and the pink box with the cinnamon rolls in it around the flimsy cardboard holder. As glad as he was to have the black beauty back, there were some comforts he'd gotten used to in the Saturn—drink holders were one of them—he thought grimly as he gave the house of cards on the floor of his brother's car a last look a carefully shut the door. He drove slowly back to the Best Bed, wanting to avoid having his breakfast get cold while he detailed the Impala.

* * *

They opted to eat on their beds instead of at the small table the room provided. Sam sat, his long legs crossed Indian style and his back to the wall and Dean lounged against the fake oak headboard. The room was quiet for awhile as they ate with enthusiasm and then finally Dean spoke.

"You got any ideas about Sasha's case?" he asked, popping the final bite of his second cinnamon roll in his mouth and licking his fingers. The words had been said casually enough, but they both knew it was a question loaded with more deadly questions.

Sam chewed thoughtfully for a minute and then swallowed his mouthful of sausage before speaking. "Not really. Her demon's M.O. doesn't seem familiar, although I'm positive it is one."

"Agreed," said Dean, starting on another gooey, iced sweet roll.

"My first thought is to start with Dad's journal and then check in with Bobby and some of the others to see if it rings anybody's bells," Sam said as he took another bite of pepper and onion filled hash browns.

"And if that doesn't turn up any leads?"

"I don't know—I guess I'm hoping this demon has a reputation."

Dean looked up from his Ranch-drenched scrambled eggs with an incredulous eyebrow and Sam was quick to explain himself.

"Not that I want it do have done a lot of damage—but if it's an up-and-comer it will be a lot harder to track." He sighed and kept eating.

"On the downside of it being an old timer, it'll have collected a lot more power and a bigger fan base—both of which will make it harder to take down," Dean said, taking swig of orange juice and cringing a little. Sam ducked his head so his brother wouldn't see his grin.

"True. A newer demon wouldn't have as many defenses. Basically, we're going to have trouble one way or the other."

Now that a rough direction had been outlined, they polished off the rest of their breakfast in relative silence before conversation resumed.

"Divide and conquer?" Dean asked as he stood and stretched.

"Yeah. Do you want to do the talking or read Dad's journal?"

"You gotta ask?" Dean said, his face mockingly serious.

Sam shook his head and smiled at his brother, "Guess not."

"How about you go get the book out of the trunk—and dump the trash while you're at it," Dean smirked, gesturing at the remains of their breakfast which was sitting on the end of Sam's bed.

"Sure, I'll just do that now," Sam said with a roll of his eyes.

As Sam gathered the take-out mess and headed out the door, Dean grabbed his phone from the bedside table, along with Sasha's files from the table and then settled himself back on bed.

Deciding to go over the notes before he made any calls, Dean began to spread the papers out around him, but stopped cold as he reached the crime scene photographs at the bottom of the stack. He paused for an instant and then without going through them he turned the pile face down and closed the folder, placing it at the end of his reach near the wall. He'd have to go over them again soon enough and he wasn't looking forward to it.

When Sam came back, his brother looked up and the two exchanged a glance of acknowledgement before Sam took a seat at the table and opened John's journal.

Dean began methodically skimming the news articles Sam had downloaded, along with the autopsy reports and hospital records and police files, setting to the side anything which specifically hollered "supernatural". He found himself drifting some, re-reading paragraphs more than once as his mind wandered from the facts in front of him to the woman the facts belonged to.

He couldn't seem to shake the feeling he'd had throughout their meeting last night that she was familiar to him. There didn't seem to be a reason for it and it was beginning to bother him. He sighed and turned the page of the report he was reading. As glad as he was to be on the tail of a demon and to have access to the information Sasha brought with her, he was uncomfortable with this gig. Hunters worked alone pretty much all the time, and while they might occasionally team up with someone else, they tried to stay clear of involving civilians, especially those who were families of victims.

He'd blurted out some of his apprehension to Sam at Sasha's the night before and as usual he regretted sharing. He'd learned many years ago what a burden it could be to have someone else know how you were feeling—there wasn't much he hated more than being worried about and protected. From the time he'd been small his dad had made it clear that Dean was the worrier and protector and in order to do his job, he needed to suck it up and give instead of take.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with both hands, pretending not to notice the glance Sam sent his way. It was hard being a survivor of tragedy and it had been awhile since he'd spent much time with someone other than his own family, who knew what it was like. Sure, they crossed paths with other hunters who had buried pasts as sad as their own . . . but no one whose pain was so recent and close to the surface. He flipped to the next page of the police case file and wished for the hundredth time that this was another faceless salt and burn. Something about this case was getting under his skin and Dean was not a man who liked having anything under his skin except the rest of him.

Re-reading the last lines of the autopsy report for Evan Bennett he picked up the one for Sasha' little girl and started at the top. Whether he let on or not, Dean had spent plenty of time bring terrified during his relatively short life and as he read the report he had a hard time blocking out thoughts of how frightened Sasha's family must have been during the assault. There wasn't much in this world scarier that being set upon by a demon and its band of merry thugs. In his mind's eye he could see it all and it was a sickening feeling.

It wasn't often that Sam and Dean were involved with strikes specifically on kids and for Dean, those were the hardest cases. He'd raised Sam and the horror of seeing children hurt brought back the fears he'd had during all those years of guarding his little brother when Sam hadn't been big enough to defend himself against the onslaught of evil that they were always rubbing elbows with.

He could relate to Sasha's gushing pain and all-consuming drive to find her son. If it had been Sam, he would have felt the same and done the same. Sasha had to have some real grit for her to have gone from high-society-lady to boogie-man-investigator in just a few months. He wondered what monsters she'd caught up to in the months since she started looking for her son . . . regardless, she hadn't been scared off and that said something about her character. She seemed like a good person, it wasn't that he thought there was something shady about her specifically . . . but he wished he could pinpoint what it _was_ that made him feel so weird.

His father taught him to trust his gut and keep his eyes on the prize when it came to hunting and protecting and that training had saved his life more times than he could count. Yet Dean had spent years grappling to balance listening to his intuition while keeping his emotions as silent and separate as possible. The result was that if he wasn't in the heat of battle or dealing with an immediate threat, his ability to sort out or identify his feelings was seriously straight-jacketed.

He wasn't far enough into the danger of this hunt to tap into instinct and see a plan laid out like a game board in his mind, and still he was as unsettled about the situation as he had been about anything in a long time. Sasha Bennett's problem was pulling at his insides and pushing emotional buttons he thought had been out of order for years. The aggravation was that he wanted to take back the control he felt slipping but he _didn't_ want to wander through his own internal muck to do it. Rock and a hard place.

* * *

"You starting with Bobby?" Sam's voice startled Dean's introspection.

"Don't we always?" Dean replied, intent again on the folder in his hands. "Just checking a couple details first. You find anything yet?"

"Nope, still looking."

Dean sighed and stood, punching up Bobby's number as he paced the four feet of open space that the Best Bed's cheapest room offered.

Sam listened with one ear to his brother's side of the conversation as he worked his way through their father's journal, looking specifically for any notes about demons actually stealing children. He was deciphering a scribble in the margin of a newspaper clipping John had taped to one of the pages when Dean dropped into the chair across from him, and snapped his phone shut.

Sam looked up expectantly and Dean shook his head. "He said he'd do some poking around, but nothing came to mind right off the bat."

"Strike one," said Sam darkly. "When's the last time it was that easy."

Dean's short laugh was not amused. "Been awhile," he murmured, letting out a deep sigh. "Bobby said the part he thought was the weirdest was that the attack happened in public—why not just wait until they were all asleep and take the kid?"

"We don't even know if that's what it wanted," Sam offered.

"No, but it hasn't exactly been raining ideas," Dean growled, standing again and striding across the familiar four feet of nasty carpet.

Sam nodded glumly and his eyes returned to the page he'd been reading. "This might be something," he said slowly, his fingers tracing the faded newsprint.

"What is it?" Dean asked, stopping mid-step.

"There's an article Dad stuck in here about 'accidents' killing off entire families, yet the bodies of the youngest kid never being found. Looks like the reporter hinted at the murders covering up kidnappings."

"How many cases?"

"Looks like the reporter profiles six, all in different states."

"Time frame?"

"Last ten years. All different M.O.'s too. Dad made a note—cryptic as usual—it just says 'demonic abduction/still alive/why?'—sounds like he didn't have much more to go on than we do."

"Great. Serial Killer Kidnapping Demons. My favorite."

"Let me check into these cases and see if there are more similarities than the reporter mentions," Sam said, already mousing the laptop out of sleep mode.

As he moved to set the journal down, Dean reached for it and sat down, taking his own look at what Sam had found. Almost silently, they worked together in pursuit of their quarry as easily as they did in caves and graveyards. Back and forth between the computer and the leather-bound book, their non-verbal rapport as effective on a paper trail as on that of a werewolf.

* * *

It was just after noon when Sam finally shook his head in surrender and stood up to stretch. He ran his hands through his hair, and then stifled a huge yawn with the back of his fist.

"You hungry yet?"

"Yeah, just a sec," Dean answered, his eyes not leaving the page.

Sam waited a few beats before he spoke, "Want to go out or stay in?"

"Hang on," Dean grumbled, flipping to the next page with his head still down.

Sighing, Sam grabbed the local phone book from the nightstand drawer and sat on the bed, browsing the yellow pages. As nice as it would be to get out of the room, they had too many unanswered questions to take a real break.

"Not Chinese," Dean finally commented, half closing the journal but keeping has hand in it to mark his place.

"Pizza?"

"That'll work," said Dean, opening the book on the table again and picking up where he'd left off as he leaned forward to rest both elbows in front of him.

Sam dialed and ordered, and as he hung up, his brother spoke.

"I think there might be something here."

"What did you find?" asked Sam, moving from the bed to the empty chair across from Dean in a movement surprisingly fluid for someone so tall.

"There's an entry about a demonic ritual Dad found reference to where the demon takes out an entire family except for the youngest kid and then . . ." he paused, searching for the right words. "From what I'm getting here he traps the souls of the family when he kills them—it says 'life force' here—" Dean said, tapping the worn page, "and somehow transfers it to the kid."

"That sounds unpleasant," Sam muttered.

"You're telling me," Dean nodded.

"How does it manage that?"

Dean picked up the journal, running his fingers along the lines of cramped, familiar penmanship to find the section his was looking for. "The demon uses itself as sort of a . . . jumper cable," he frowned as Sam gave him a look of incredulity at the car reference. "It uses its own power to transfer the energy it sucked from the rest of the family into the kid, adding some of its own juice into the mix. One side effect is apparently that the kid ages almost instantly into a grown-up, another is that it absorbs some of the demon's abilities and the last—which is my favorite, by the way—," Dean said, his tone acidic, "is that he can heal himself."

"Seriously? But what's the point?" Sam asked, horror tightening his voice. "What does a demon get out of creating a human-demon hybrid? They can already possess people and do what they want, so why go to the trouble?"

"It's all pretty jumbled at the end, but I think the ritual binds the kid to the demon so that he thinks the demon _is_ his family, plus it creates a sort of superhuman. Three 'life forces' and a dash of demon all wrapped up in one pretty package." Dean's smile was brittle and he paused to let that sink in, keeping his eyes on his brother's face.

"I still don't get it . . ." Sam trailed off, puzzled.

"Think of it this way. The demon now has Junior who can do paranormal tricks like a demon, has superman strength, can keep himself alive no matter what, is completely devoted to his new daddy—"

"And isn't affected by anti-demonics like holy water, devil's traps or exorcisms because he isn't actually a demon," Sam finished in disgust.

"Bingo."

"Dude. That is _so_ not good."

"You think?"

"Can the kid be saved? Can he be . . ." Sam struggled to put the solution into words. ". . . can he be changed back?"

"You mean like, since he has the devil in him, getting the devil out of him?" Dean asked with a smirk, earning a standard look of disapproval from Sam.

"Yeah. Something along those lines."

Dean let out a long sigh and leaned back with his hands behind his head. It still made his ribs sting a little, but he only winced internally now which was better for Sam's morale. "There's nothing in Dad's journal about what comes next. He heard about the ritual from a hunter with no name, in a bar with no name, in a town with no name," he grinned briefly, "Sounds like a bad country song." Getting nothing from Sam, he went on. "And the entry looks like it's probably a good ten years old."

"You think this might be the reason the demon took Sasha's son?"

"Could be. Did you get any more on those disappearances from the paper?"

Now it was Sam's turn to sigh as he glanced at the laptop. "I did some searching in federal law enforcement databases—"

"Go Sammy," Dean smiled appreciatively.

"Gee, thanks," Sam rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I also checked stuff from local departments and news reports in the states that the article mentioned. I stopped when I got up to three dozen matches—just in the last ten years."

Dean gave a low whistle. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

"At that rate you could build up a nice-sized army."

"They fit the pattern of Sasha's demon attack almost exactly. None of them were attacked in their homes—it was always out in the open. A handful were passed off as accidents; a bear attack, a car crash, but most of them happened out in the open, at dusk or just after, youngest child always missing."

"Did anybody else survive?"

"It's a lot harder to track cases with survivors . . . but I didn't find any."

Silence held the room for a few moments and then Dean spoke. "Wouldn't someone have noticed—I mean hunters—if they were coming up against these Freaky Friday un-demons? I mean, we'd of heard about it, or Dad or Bobby would have, don't you think?"

Sam nodded slowly. "But even if these things are massively strong and even with the healing stuff, there has to be a way to kill them, right? Maybe since they don't die like demons, they die like . . ." he searched for word to describe the new phenomenon.

"Like something else dark and nasty," Dean supplied.

"Yeah. And depending on what the demon is using them for, maybe what they're doing mimics another kind of predator, human or non-human. That'd be a good way to keep the hunting community out of the loop."

"So how do we track these creepy kiddies down?"

"And what do we do when we find them?"

Again, they were quiet as they each tried to work on the variables.

"Maybe we should try Bobby again now that we know a little more. Maybe having a few more pieces of the puzzle will make a difference," Sam suggested. "You want me to call?"

"Go ahead. Were they delivering that pizza? 'Cause I'm thinking it's gonna be free," he smiled wickedly.

Sam stood and fished the Impala's keys out of his pocket and tossed them to his brother. "Sorry, but I was supposed to go get it—probably cold by now. You want to go together and I'll call Bobby on the way?"

"Naw, I think I can handle it. What name did you give?"

"Francis," Sam said with a laugh.

Dean stood up and grabbed his jacket, shaking his head in disgust. "No way I'm owning up to that one, sweet pea. Now I'm gonna have to stand around and wait while they make Mick Jagger a pizza." With that he was out the door and Sam dialed Bobby's number.


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note: Yeah! Fighting! We've turned a corner I think and the boys are cooperating now. I'm going to try and finish this by the end of October! Thank you for your patience and your kindness. _

_Disclaimer: Kripke owns them._

**Chapter 14**

Over their late lunch of a Double Supreme Deep Dish a piece, Sam relayed his conversation with Bobby.

"He's heard of the ritual, but he's never run into anyone who has seen the results of it," Sam said.

"Or lived to talk about it," Dean muttered with his mouth full.

"True."

"Did Bobby have any ideas of what we should do next?"

"He asked if we'd checked signs—weather and all that—surrounding the incidents. He thought maybe we if we might be able to find this demon's pattern, it might give us something more recent or at least a heads up if it tries it again. I thought I'd take a look after lunch and see what I could dig up." Sam reached for another slice and continued, "The National Weather Service has a lot of stuff online now, plus," he smiled slyly, "whatever isn't on their website is still accessible to me, personally."

Dean held out his soda can to toast his little brother's coolness. Swallowing his mouthful of pepperoni and sausage, he spoke. "You know, Sasha's people could probably handle some of that for us . . . free us up to work on what to do if—when—we catch up with it all."

"True. It'd be interesting to have them use some of the protocols they've developed for geo-thermal and geological patterns," Sam said, unable to keep a hint of excitement out of his voice. His inherent inquisitiveness was more than a little piqued by the new ideas Sasha had introduced them to the night before. "It looks like the presence of demons disrupts even more of the natural world than we knew. If you can overlay the different types of data it might make it so we could pinpoint the location of an attack with a lot more precision than you can with a map, an almanac, a pencil and a ruler!"

Dean stared at Sam, "Dude, do you have any idea how many big words you just used in one sentence?" His actual admiration for his brother's eloquence masked by his snark, he continued. "It's gotta be some kind of record." He reached for his phone, "I've better contact the Guinness people."

Sam's jaw tightened in a show of slightly more irritation than he felt. "Don't you ever get sick of acting dumb, Dean?" The question came out before he could stop himself—his brother's dismissal of intellectual achievement frustrated him more because he knew how smart Dean really was, than because of the razzing.

"Who're you calling dumb?"

"Forget it," Sam sighed, "This stuff Sasha's people have picked up on could really help us, you know?"

"I know," Dean answered, almost contritely. "This ain't your grand-daddy's same ol' game anymore, is it Sammy?" Dean laughed softly.

Sam smiled, agreeing to the truce. "Sure ain't."

"We told her we'd touch base today, you gonna call?" Sam asked he stood and began to clear the remains of their lunch.

Dean didn't respond immediately, and Sam glanced over at his brother who was leaning back precariously in his chair, apparently studying a surfboard-shaped stain on the ceiling. "Dean? I can do it if you want me to . . ." he trailed off, curious at the tension that suddenly seemed to crackling through Dean.

Seconds skipped by slowly without a response and then the silent inertia ceased and Dean was out of the chair in a smooth catlike movement, prowling the room. "I got it," he said tersely. He flipped his phone open and began hunting for Sasha's number.

Sam shook his head as if to clear it, puzzled again by his brother's reaction to Sasha Bennett and her situation. Dean's moments of indecision and emotional vincibility were as scarce as palm trees on ice bergs. He considered getting started on the research they needed to do to figure out if Myles Bennett could be saved and how to vanquish his demon, but he felt drawn (quite humanly) to the lumpy bed in the far corner of the room. A short nap would be nice. He yawned. He'd be sharper if he slept a little more. Sam had experienced longer-lasting and more exhausting nights, but he still hadn't slept much, and they'd been hitting the case pretty hard this morning.

"You mind if I sleep?" he whispered.

"Good idea, Princess," Dean grinned, "That face of yours is screaming for some beauty sleep."

Tossing his jacket on the end of the bed, Sam stifled another yawn and sat down on the edge of the mattress, unlacing his boots and pulling them off. As he heard Dean greet Sasha and begin to give her the information they'd found, Sam settled himself on the ratty orange bedspread, watching Dean pace and talk with one arm tucked tightly under the other in a guarded position. He closed his eyes and listened some as his brother paused, then spoke in a subdued tone, then paused again and Sam began to drift a little, lulled as he always had been by his brother's voice.

* * *

Dean had no clue how you were supposed to break the news to someone that their baby had indeed been demon-napped and was probably now a brainwashed adult with freaky powers, who was doing said demon's dirty work. He'd have preferred not to find out, but here he was. His voice was soft and even, and he studied the worn-out carpet as he spoke to Sasha Bennett about her son.

When he'd finished with the theory he and Sam and decided on he paused, partly for her sake and partly for his own. As he waited for her response he wondered if this is what doctors felt like when they had to break death sentences to the families who would have to live through them. This did not feel like giving someone closure, and Dean was nothing if not a case-closed-loving man. Finally, she spoke, her voice shot through with fear and anguish.

"So this demon used a spell—a ritual—to age Myles? One that transfers some of the demon's supernatural abilities to him?" Sasha said with horrified incredulity.

"We think so," Dean said gently, taking a deep breath and letting it out heavily.

"And the demon is probably using him to commit great evil, and you don't know where he is or if he would even remember me . . . " her voice trailed away, bitter and brittle as paper leaves. "Or if he would even know that he's human."

Dean swallowed hard and glanced at Sam, irrationally glad his brother was asleep and not listening to him stumble through this. "I'm sorry."

The words fell between them with the hollowness of a stone finally hitting the bottom of a dry well. It was as if time paused and in his mind's eye, Dean could see Sasha's heart stop beating; its solid blush bleaching and turning to dust. Then he heard her breathe again, and fast, like a film in double-time the ashy fragments coalesced and turned blood-red with life and wholeness. Her voice was barely audible as she spoke, and Dean was surprised that what he heard in it was composure and uncertainty, not hot wrath.

"What should I do next?" The question caught Dean off guard and he hesitated long enough for her to continue. "I don't know what to do now." Now there was clear shock underlying her words and this pushed him forward.

"We've been working on a plan," he said, clearing his throat of the grit the conversation was stirring up in his gut. "We were hoping that you could get your guys to work on some tracking patterns for us. That way we can focus on the . . . less-than-normal stuff. Leave the science to those who can take it to the next level a little more easily."

"Of course," Sasha said the relief for something to focus on evident in her voice. "I'll email you the contact information you need now and then we can get together later and go over it in person once the teams have had a chance to start on the work. How about joining me for dinner again," she paused and Dean guessed she was looking for the time.

"It's almost four."

"Say, six? Is that enough time?"

"Let's make it seven."

"What are you trying to find?"

"It looks like the demon has done this before. We've found a bunch of cases—dozens—and it's enough information that we can get a good idea of what to look for when we go after it if we can pool the weather, geological and geographical data for each attack. We need a direction in order to hunt this monster and mapping this stuff is one of our best bets."

"One?"

"Sam's starting on the other research now. He's been checking out news archives this morning and he's going to keep on looking. He'll give what he finds to your people, but more than details on the hits, we need to figure out exactly what it is we're gonna do when we find the demon. That'll take some time since our contacts are usually not easy to reach or quick to share what they know. "

"I can imagine. Your people live pretty far off the grid—I can attest to you being hard to find," she said with the hint of a smile in her voice. There was a long pause and then she spoke softly, "What about Myles?"

Dean knew this would come up eventually and he had been dreading it. "We don't know if this can be reversed yet. We don't know what's left of . . . the boy that you knew. Or if there's a way to reach him." He heard the sort of sharp intake of breath that came when he punched somebody, hard, and his guilt made him tightened his jaw at the pain he knew Sasha was feeling.

"But it's possible."

"It's possible."

Neither spoke for what seemed like a long time and then, finally, he couldn't help but break it, his voice laden with fierce determination. "We'll look for as long as it takes to find the answer."

"What if the answer is that my son can't be saved?"

And this was the moment Dean would have given anything to not inflict on another human being. He knew the agony of the situation more than most and how it could wrench pain from corners of your soul that you didn't know existed. He struggled, wanting to make it less awful than it was, to keep the hurt out of his own voice.

"If he's gone . . . if there's nothing left of Myles . . . there won't be anything to save." The words sounded taut and more forlorn than he'd meant them to, and it was as though someone else was speaking. "There's no way to make it easier. With what you know and what you've seen," he paused, wishing for a way out—for both of them. When he found his voice again, it was steadfast and yet laced with a softer emotion that had appeared instinctively, but that he refused to identify. "When we find him, Sasha. If we can't free him or make him right again . . . We can't let him go."

As he finished he looked over at his baby brother. The boyhood innocence Dean had worked so hard to give him and to help him keep was evident, the only place it ever was now, on his relaxed, slumbering face. John Winchester's words rang black and clear in his eldest son's head—_If you can't save him you have to kill him_. Dean didn't considered it an option for even a millisecond then, and here he was telling this woman she was going to have to let her little boy die if they couldn't figure out a way to fix things.

In the past few hours Dean hadn't second guessed the reality of eliminating what was left of Myles Bennett if the need arose, or whether or not he could do it. Of course he would. He was a hunter and if the (former) child had crossed over to the dark side, they'd have to vanquish him. Yet now there was a part of him trying to bring the ever-shifting lines of good and evil into sharp, vicious focus—trying to force him to look at a move he'd sworn never to make. He felt panic rising and he slammed the door on it all just as Sasha spoke.

"We'd have to destroy him," her words were almost a sob.

"Yes," Dean whispered in reply.

After disconnecting, Dean walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside, watching the passersby. Exhaustion hit him physically and emotionally and he leaned forward against the sill on both hands. It had been awhile since he'd felt this twisted up about someone other than Dad or Sam, and the crazy thing was that it wasn't clear to him why this was happening.

It wasn't a physical attraction thing—Jessica Alba she was not. They had little in common from what he could tell other than the demonic issues. He'd run up on that enough times and it'd never gotten under his skin before . . . Sad story, nice enough person, useful information, finish the gig and leave it behind. It wouldn't be possible in this case because of Sasha's connections; she'd be a long-time contact and he felt seriously unsettled by that. The link he felt to this woman and her baggage was a problem, he just couldn't put his finger on the variety. He frowned and shook himself out of the speculation. Maybe he just had "mommy issues", he snarked to himself.

"Sam," he said, turning towards his brother's bed. "Sam. Wake up, bro." Picking up a pillow off the end of his own bed he lobbed it at the restfully curled figure and spoke louder. "Wakey-wakey, Sammy, we got work to do."

Sam grumbled to the surface of his nap and sat up, not looking particularly less haggard than he had an hour earlier. Dean seated himself at the table, tracing a circle on the laptop's tracking pad. "Sasha said she'd email us the contact stuff for her geeks and we need to get them started and meet her for dinner in a few hours."

"How'd she take it?" Sam asked with a frown of concern.

"Better than most."

"That good, huh?"

"Better than most," Dean said again, his focus on the computer screen. Here it is. He sighed and stood up, stretching carefully. "How about I let you do the easy part while I take my turn riding the nap train?"

"Do you care if I say no?"

"Not really," he yawned as he dropped to the bed and beat the pillow into a reasonable facsimile of submission.

* * *

Tom once again led them to the table in the walnut paneled dining room where Sasha Bennett sat. She leaned on her elbows, her hands clasped casually as she stared out at the shifting light in the garden.

With autumn filling more of each day, the night came earlier and as one of summer's last glory days faded, the warm darkness descending had a closeness and languidity that seeped through the screened windows of the room.

"Hello," Sasha smiled as Sam and Dean settled themselves at the table.

Sam's smoothness made the moment easy and he spoke without hesitation, "It's good to see you again."

Dean nodded his reciprocation, his gaze meeting Sasha's restlessly before flipping open the menu in front of him and giving it his full attention.

He was quiet during dinner, but Sam's gifted small-talking kept things comfortable, and after they had the apple pie (again), they tromped upstairs to Sasha's suite. Sasha opened the door and then paused as she surveyed the sitting room.

"Come on in," she smiled at them sheepishly. "I'll work on finding you a place to sit." Sasha stepped inside and the Winchesters stood stunned in the doorway. Without even thinking, Dean spoke up.

"Hurricane season arrive in Montana?"

"Hurricane Me," Sasha sighed as she dropped her purse on the desk and made a grab to steady the stack of manila folders she'd disturbed.

Sam shut the door and they moved back against its solidness as Sasha sidled by, gathering piles of paperwork from the chairs and coffee table.

"I'm really sorry," she said, the chagrin obvious in her voice as she set a bunch of maps in a clear spot on the floor. "I got caught up in several projects today and sort of . . ." She opened her arms in an expansive gesture, "spread out."

Dean snickered in soft amusement and Sam gave him a "dude-you-are-_so-_rude" look. They watched as Sasha transferred things to the precariously balanced desk, creating space on the chairs and the table.

"Don't worry about it," Sam spoke up consolingly, "you should see our place."

Now it was Dean's turn for a "you-secret-exposer-you" glare at his brother who just rolled his eyes and returned a solid stare. Their attention was drawn back to Sasha when they heard her muffled voice.

"Have a seat."

Both men turned to see her lifting a massive pile of ostensibly clean, unfolded laundry off the couch. As she turned toward the bedroom, Sam stepped forward.

"You want some help?"

"Nope, I've got it."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, trying to keep the humor out of his voice. "Can you see alright under there?"

"Fine thanks," came the reply from behind the pile—all they could see was the top of her head.

Dean watched incredulously, an eyebrow raised. She disappeared into the bedroom and they heard a _whump _as Sasha dropped her burden. She emerged, her face flushed and her hair escaping from its loose ponytail. Waving them toward the sofa, Sasha smiled apologetically.

"Laundry day," she said with a grimace. "I hate folding so I always put it off."

Dean grinned and nodded. "That's why I make Sammy do it."

Sam snorted, "I took it up out of self-preservation—my brother and I have differing views on the number of day you should wear clothes before you wash them."

"Whatever, man," Dean responded. "You just happen to be the Winchester who's naturally talented in the linen department. We never had the heart to squash your enthusiasm for bleach and dryer sheets."

"My enthusiasm?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"Yeah—remember when you were, oh, eleven, and you went through that phase where you made Dad choose motels that had an ironing board on the back of the door so you could iron everything? Even your underoo—"

"Dean." Sam growled with low and deadly warning in his voice, cutting his brother off in mid-word.

"Boys!" Sasha said with mock chiding, her amusement apparent as they both turned, remembering she was there. "Shall we sit?"

Sam fumed and Dean grinned and they both found seats—at opposite ends of the room.

"So you were able to send Zayne and Callie some data to start on?" Sasha asked Sam.

Sam took a deep breath, mentally shaking off Dean's ribbing and willing himself to focus. "Yeah. I did some IM'ing with Callie about search parameters for additional cases, aggregation methods for results and what we are really looking for." He smiled and continued, "She really knows her stuff—I was impressed."

"Geek love." Dean muttered, shaking his head. Sasha and Sam completely ignored the comment.

"That's why I hired her," Sasha said. "So she's dealing with gathering information on attacks and locations?"

"Yes; she'll ship what her team finds to Zayne so he can take the places and do natural phenomenon workups."

"And Callie will run some reports on the case details to see if there are patterns in times of day, family size, ages, and etcetera?"

"Um, I'm not sure we talked about it specifically," Sam's brow wrinkled and his gaze was abstract as he tried to remember the flurry of conversations he'd had with Sasha's information hunters that afternoon.

"I can check in with her later—she knows what I usually want, so she'd probably on top of it. If not, it won't be hard for her to add it to the grocery list. Did either of them give you a timeline?"

"Callie said we should have her stuff by two or three in the morning and Zayne just said he'd need a half dozen hours once Callie handed over the goods."

"Good." Sasha turned to Dean and then she hesitated briefly. "Tell me what you've found. Anything helpful?"

Glancing at Sam, Dean cleared his throat. "We've put out a lot of feelers, but nothing's come back yet. Any references we've come across are cryptic at best and useless at worst."

Sasha kept tight control over her emotions, but Sam and Dean weren't fooled by the cool poise.

"So it's a waiting game at this point—waiting to see who decides to share," she stated levelly.

"We still might come across something arcane that might do what we need it to do . . ." Sam spoke up, his voice trailing off as he saw that his attempt at hopefulness was not being well-received.

"The hard part right now is that we don't know exactly what we're looking for," Dean said quietly. The pain he watched Sasha desperately try to conceal was pushing on his chest like too much water, making it difficult to breathe.

She was sitting again in the big blue chair and she appeared to retreat into it; pulling her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them and closing her eyes briefly. She looked young and small and exhausted. Opening her eyes, she looked at Dean.

"I need you to talk to me as a hunter so that I can help. It's not easy," she said, shaking her head, "but I'm in this to win and I can't help if I'm not looking at the situation from as many angles as possible." She took a deep breath and continued speaking, he eyes focused on her clasped hands. "Earlier you explained your theories and concerns to me as if I was the victim's mother," she said, her eyes meeting Dean's again with a sad smile. "Thank you for that, Dean."

Sam glanced at his brother, expecting Dean's protective sarcasm to kill the heart-rending intimacy of Sasha's gratitude. This was a "chick-flick" moment if ever there was one (and he meant no disrespect). Instead what he saw was puzzling. Conflict and confusion were evident on Dean's face. And the eternal snark was silent. "Huh." He thought to himself. And then the room began to twist and he felt his insides give a mighty heave. He was on his knees in an instant and felt the agony start in the back of his eye sockets and lance into his temple.

_Sam's eyes began to adjust to the 40-watt light and he saw the back of his own head as he sat on the sagging couch in a room that had seen better days. Sasha was also on the couch and Dean was across from them, grim-eyed and tight-jawed. The musty smell of disuse permeated the cramped room and the air was tinged with the rough underbite of old cigarettes._

_All he could hear was static and then the scene gyrated in fast forward and he was standing next to the couch—_

"—_It's not gonna happen. It's too dangerous." Dean said. His voice was empty of concession, a tone his younger brother knew well._

"_Says who?" Sasha snapped, "I know you've been at this a long time, but it's not up to you to make decisions for me."_

"_Well somebody has to, somebody without a death wish," Dean shot back._

_Both versions of Sam muttered "You're one to talk," under their breath, which earned the visible one a murderous look from Dean._

"_I don't have a death wish," Sasha said, her voice tight and controlled. "But I was there in Sam's vision, Dean, and if this is connected to Myles there is no way I am staying out of it."_

_The sound went static again and the argument continued like a silent film as the players in the scene gestured and paced. Sam's equilibrium twisted again and he was behind Dean's chair, listening to his own voice._

"_She's right Dean. We had this conversation in my vision. I'm standing right behind you."_

_The static covered the verbal brutality of Dean's response, but he glanced a glare over his shoulder and his anger was evident. Sam and Dean exchanged more words in the white noise and when the sound came back on, Sasha was speaking._

"_Unless you're going to tie me to a chair, Dean, you can't stop me from coming."_

"_How many times do we need to go over this? Sam saw you __**waiting in the car**__, Sasha. How much difference could that make? The reason we use these visions is not to win bets—it's to change what happens, to keep people alive. We don't want what Sam saw, which was apparently a massacre. We want something better." Dean's voice was vibrating with desperation, "Come on, Sam—tell her."_

"_You're both right," the Sam in the vision said, his voice rising in frustration. "I don't understand the loop in this one—I don't know what parts need to be changed and what parts we should follow." _

"_I can help you," Sasha implored pleadingly. "I'm new at this, but I'm not without useful skills."_

_Watching the waves of emotion roiling around Sasha and his brother, Sam tried to sort out the strands of fear and force binding the three in the room. And then the sound cut again and the lights in his head gleamed bright and went out. _

_Standing outside the Impala in the dark, Sam stumbled with vertigo, catching himself on the hood of the car. The rush of nothingness rang in his ears as he watched as the three of them got out of the car, and he and Dean began unloading the trunk in apparent silence. Sasha stood to the side, watching, her arms wrapped around herself to defend from chills both inside and out. The picture was choppy and it seemed to be skipping frames, like a bad splicing job._

_Sam jumped as the self in the vision slammed the trunk hard and shouldered a duffle bag. The sound came as if through a long tunnel, but he could still make out the short conversation._

"_Be careful," Sasha said, giving each boy a long look._

"_You too," Sam replied, enfolding her in a quick hug; a move which startled the visionary Winchester._

"_Take care of your idiot brother, okay?" she grinned at Sam._

"_The idiot brother does just fine, thank you," Dean grumbled._

_Both Sams glanced between Sasha and Dean and then the one who could be heard cleared his throat and spoke. "I'm gonna wait for you at the trailhead, bro."_

_Dean nodded wordlessly and Sam hitched the duffle higher on his shoulder and started walking the 15 yards to stone trail marker. Glancing at Sasha and Dean, the watching Sam followed himself, straining his eyes as he approached the marker. Trying, in the gloomy light, to read the words that were carved into the 3-foot tall stone. The Sam in the vision dropped the duffle with a thud and turned to watch the two who stood at the Impala's trunk and the watcher squatted, his fingers hovering above the weathered words that were impressed vertically into the square pole._

"_Little Devils Stairs," he murmured, and then another sickening jolt and he was on the ground in the dark. All sound was masked by painful, roaring, static. He struggled to sit and then pulled himself up against the cragged trunk of a tree, panting at the psychic pain._

_As disoriented as he was, Sam immediately recognized the scene before him. Open clearing in the woods, damp and chill with the moon giving everything long shadows as it shone through the clouds. This was the place he'd seen in the first vision at Havre. The place where he and Dean fought another demon and—he hoped—lived to tell the story._

_Again he saw himself and his brother break through the trees into the circle in pursuit of the monster and then the sound came on and he heard the mocking derision of the demon and the agonized noises he and Dean made as they fought with it and tried not to die. Panic welled in his gut and he stepped out of the darkness, starting to run. The logical part of his mind knew there was nothing he could do, but he couldn't help himself._

_The vision's torque grabbed him suddenly and picked him up with a blinding burst. When he could see again he was back behind the tree line and the usual clamoring blur filled his ears. It took him an instant to realize his perspective was different—he was on the opposite side now. Then the hushing dropped and what he heard startled him. The voice was soft but clear and it was chanting in Latin._

_Sam turned, searching for the source of the sound and as he pinpointed where it was coming from he realized it was close—within feet of his current position. He took a step towards it and then the knife-like pain crashed though his skull and he pitched forward, not stopping at the earth below, falling through and through and through._


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note: The timeline in this piece has some serious issues so but since it's so totally AU at this point and you've kindly suspended belief for most of this anyway, just keep turning a blind eye and we'll all be okay! Can you believe I've neglected this story for so long? Don't worry—I am totally back in the saddle and chapters will be forthcoming at regular intervals (and there is even action coming up). Please tell me what you're most interested in hearing about, and what you like and don't. Reviewers rock! _

**Chapter 15**

"I need ice and a towel. And water in a cup or a bottle." Sam heard Dean's voice, tight and low. There was a pause, and then Dean again, louder. "Wait, help me get him off the floor first." Sam felt his body lifted awkwardly and positioned prone on a soft surface.

"Do you have painkillers," Dean didn't wait for an answer, "If not there are some in the car—"

"Yes—Tylenol or Advil?" Sasha interrupted.

Dean's hands, which were carefully removing Sam's sweatshirt, paused briefly before he replied. "Advil."

Sasha whirled into the other room. Finishing with his brother's first layer, Dean seated himself on the low table and moved on the flannel shirt beneath it and as he began to ease it off Sam opened his eyes.

"Hey bro, relax," Dean said, his tone carefully gruff. "Did you have a nice nap? You realize that's two for you and only one for me today, right? So not fair."

Sam struggled to sit and Dean gently held him back, "Just hang on a sec, Sasha's bringing you a drink and some pills."

The younger Winchester leaned back, closing his eyes and Dean started work on the boots. Suddenly Sam sat bolt upright, his face contorted in pain and his eyes still closed. He looked, well, green.

"Uh-oh," Dean muttered. "Sasha—garbage can," he called, just as she strode back into the room.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

Sasha dumped the water bottle and the pill bottle in the chair closest to Dean and grabbed the wastebasket from under the desk, barely getting it in place before Sam began to wretch.

"I've got this—get the ice," Dean barked, his voice low.

Sasha was out the door in an instant, closing the door silently behind herself. When Sam finally sat back, Dean set the trash can to the side.

"I'm going to get a wash cloth, okay? I'm just going to the bathroom, okay?" Sam said nothing, and Dean stood and then turned back to his brother. "You gonna need that barf bowl right away or should I wash it out?" The worst of it was probably over, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.

Sam limply waved two fingers and Dean took the can with him as he headed into the other room. Dean turned the water in the bath to hot and began searching for a wash cloth as he waited for it to heat up. The bath room appeared to be devoid of anything towel-like and on a hunch Dean stuck his head back into the bedroom he'd walked through.

Sure enough, the mound of laundry Sasha had transferred from the sitting room was at least towels. Dean quickly grabbed what he needed, managing an appreciative smile at some of the other items in the pile, and headed back to the bathroom. He swished out the garbage can, wetted a hand towel and was back to Sam in less than five minutes.

He had just finished helping Sam wash up when the door opened carefully and Sasha entered with a green mixing bowl filled with ice. She looked at Dean questioningly and he mouthed "bathroom".

"Be right back, Sammy," he whispered and followed Sasha out of the room.

Sasha already had a couple of bath towels on the bathroom counter and was dumping ice into the center of one. She didn't look up as Dean entered, just handed him the empty bowl and began to fold the second towel over the first one into a tight package.

"Anything else you need right now?"

"Once we get the pills into him and get him settled, he'll need some space—about an hour." Dean paused as Sasha finished the makeshift ice pack and brushed past him on her way to the other room. Following, he continued. "I usually go get him something to eat."

"Where does he need this?" Sasha asked, moving aside so that Dean could sit on the table next to Sam again.

Dean took the towel and eased Sam up a few inches. "Pillows?" he whispered without taking his eyes off of his brother.

Sasha dashed into the bedroom and returned in an instant with two bed pillows. Dean set the ice pack down and they both maneuvered a groaning, semi-conscious Sam up a little and then positioned the ice behind Sam's neck and upper back. Sasha reached for a throw quilt that was draped over a rack at the end of the 8-foot antique sofa and covered Sam up as Dean's approving gaze followed the action.

Dean leaned over, close to his brother's ear and spoke quietly. "We're just going downstairs, Sammy. Take another nap and we'll bring you back something to eat, okay?" Standing, Dean motioned to Sasha and they headed out, closing the door noiselessly behind them.

They were seated at their usual table in the dining room, which was empty at this time of night and mostly dark. Tom, who'd become quite fond of Sasha in the past few weeks, had told her it was no problem and the Lewis the resident chef would be happy to fix them soup and sandwiches. He cheerfully took notes on what they wanted and walked the order back to the kitchen. The two at the table sat soundless for a long moment and then finally Sasha broke the hush.

"What was that?"

Dean looked hard at her and then dropped his gaze to the table. He took a deep breath and let it out, leaning forward on his elbows and running a hand over his face as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion he felt.

"It's kind of a crazy thing, you know?" he started, his eyes still on the table.

"Is there anything that isn't these days?" Sasha retorted gently.

Dean looked up with a somber smile. "Yeah. I guess you're right about that." He sighed deeply, "Sam has . . . abilities," he said, stopping to gauge Sasha's reaction.

"Abilities?"

"Yeah."

"As in, supernatural abilities."

"Yeah."

"So, what happened upstairs, that was part of these . . ." her voice trailed off as she studied Dean's face signs of jest.

Dean looked out the window into the blackness of the garden. "Sam has visions."

Sasha continued to watch him steadily, so he swallowed hard and kept talking. "It hasn't been long, and I know what to do to help him now after he has one."

"What does he see?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"Pieces of things that are going to happen. When gets through the side effects we try to figure out what it means, where it is. Then we take care of it if we can."

"Take care of it?"

"Make sure the bad thing Sam saw doesn't get the chance to happen."

"You can do that? You've actually tracked these events and been able to do something to prevent them?"

"Sometimes," Dean said gruffly. "The visions aren't like watching a movie from beginning to end. More like a jigsaw puzzle dumped on a table. About half the time it takes us too long . . . although the visions are getting clearer Sam says. We've been doing better lately."

Tom brought their food and set a tray on the table next to theirs for them to take up to Sam, then left them to their food and conversation.

"Well, I must say the Wonderful World of Winchester is an exciting place to be," Sasha said finally with a dark laugh.

"We try," Dean grinned.

"So what's the plan?"

Glancing at his watch, Dean finished a mouthful of pastrami and Swiss sandwich before answering. "Give him another fifteen minutes and we'll head back up. He should be able to eat by then. When he's ready, we'll talk."

"About what he saw?"

"Yes."

"Is it going to be too weird to have me there? Do you want me to wait down here and just let you go up?"

Dean was startled by the question; startled she'd considered that it might be a personal sort of thing. "I think it will be okay. If Sam seems uncomfortable, we can go back to our place and catch up with you later."

"Do you think this has to do with Myles?" Sasha asked hesitantly.

"I don't know," Dean said, shaking his head. "Usually the visions have something to do with whatever it is we're working on, but then, this is all still pretty new."

Sasha quietly opened the door to her suite and Dean followed her in carrying a tray and they sat in silence as Sam ate ravenously. The anxiety was like palpable electricity in the air around them. As he finished Sasha automatically took the tray and left the room with it, providing a moment for Dean to check in with his brother.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Same old," Sam said with a grimace.

"Do you care if Sasha's here while we talk? Would you rather just go back to our place?"

Sam considered the questions briefly and then shook his head. The movement caused him to wince and regret the action instantly. "We can stay," he paused "It's probably a good idea if she is here."

"What?"

"Dean, she was in the vision," Sam said soberly.

"Like, in it how? Was it about her kid?"

"I don't know if it had anything to do with Myles, I didn't see him I don't think . . ." he paused, his brow furrowed as he tried to sort out the images he'd seen. "This one was connected to the last one, though."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. It started out different, but then I was back in the woods with you and the demon again."

There was a soft knock and Dean strode to the door and opened it. Sasha's eyes asked the unspoken question and Dean nodded a reply, standing back to let her in.

"Are we okay?" she asked him quietly as she stepped past him into the room.

"Yeah. I think you'd better hear this."

Sasha raised her eyebrows and sat herself hesitantly on the edge of the blue chair as Dean sat back down on the coffee table close to his brother. Sasha smiled at Sam and he smiled back blearily.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"Better, thanks," Sam replied.

Dean was down to business. "Start at the beginning, Sam. Tell Sasha about the first one."

Sam shifted, swinging his long legs off the couch and then pausing for a moment with his head in his hands as a wave of vertigo slid through him. Sitting back with a deep sigh he looked at Sasha.

"I had a vision yesterday before we came to see you. There was a demon that possessed a guy and killed his wife and then Dean and I were in the woods somewhere back east fighting it."

"Do you have them this often?" Sasha asked in surprise.

"No, this is unusual actually," he grinned drily, "I'm feeling pretty used and abused at this point." Glancing at his brother, the smile faded. The tension was dripping off Dean like damp fog. Sam continued, "This ended with the same fight I saw before, but the beginning was different."

Sasha opened her mouth and then closed it again, not asking about Myles even though her heart had begun to pounding like a drum in her rib cage. Instead, she tucked her feet under her and folded her arms across her chest as if to keep the beating fear controlled.

Sam watched her movements, interpreting them easily, and after another quick look at Dean he spoke again.

"First we were in a motel room—the three of us—and we were arguing."

"Me?" Sasha asked, her eyes going wide as she sat up straighter.

"Yeah," Sam smiled.

Sasha turned to Dean and he returned her gaze, but his face was unreadable and almost emotionless. Sam cleared his throat.

"We were going somewhere, looking for the demon I saw us fighting I guess . . . it was weird. I knew I was there. I mean, the me that was in the room knew the me watching the vision was watching us." He furrowed his brow. "That's never happened before."

"Was it the place we're in now?" Dean asked, his voice gravelly.

"Naw—definitely not. I'd recognize that nasty plaid couch if I'd seen it before," he grinned. Sasha cracked a small smile, but Dean did not, and Sam sighed, trying to focus.

"Sasha wanted to come, because I'd seen a vision—the one I just had I guess—where she came with us on the hunt," he paused and looked at his brother, "but you were dead set against it."

Dean stiffened noticeably but didn't speak so Sam went on, his eyes on Sasha now. "You told Dean nothing short of tying you to a chair would keep you from coming along."

Sam knew they were freaked out, both of them at this point, but he couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he described this part.

"I guess you won because after that we were at a trailhead in the woods—"

"Where?" Dean and Sasha interrupted in the same split second. Sam was amused as the two glanced at each other and then looked away. "I'm not sure, but I got the name of the trail . . ." his voice faded as the other two people in the room stood at the same time, nearly knocking into each other.

"Laptop?" Sasha asked sheepishly, and Dean smiled and shook his head.

"Ladies first."

She pulled her laptop out from under the desk and flipped the top open, waiting impatiently for it to pull itself out of hibernation.

"You want me to keep talking or wait?" Sam questioned.

"Keep going," said Dean, and Sasha nodded her agreement, her eyes never leaving the computer screen.

"The trail was called Little Devils Stairs, and it was definitely an eastern states forest."

"Little Devils as in belonging to one small devil or a staircase for many little devils?" Sasha asked wryly as she began typing.

"No apostrophe."

"Shenandoah National Park. It's in Virginia," Sasha pronounced almost instantly.

"That's about a two day drive," Dean breathed, standing to pace. "Tell us the rest—and don't even think about leaving anything out, Sam," he said fiercely.

Sam scowled at his brother. "I didn't see the end of the _'discussion'_ we were having, but the next thing I saw we were unloading the car in the trail parking lot."

"All of us?" Dean questioned.

"Well, the three of us were there, but Sasha was mostly watching."

"She was coming with us? On the hunt?"

"It didn't look like it . . ." he paused and shot a look at Sasha, "she told me to take care of my idiot brother," Sam laughed.

The elder Winchester stopped in his tracks and glowered at them both. Sasha smiled at Sam.

"And did you?" she asked, her tone deliberately light. "What happened next?"

Sam sobered. "I think maybe we did, but not by ourselves."

"What do you mean?" Dean questioned, his eyes fixed on Sam.

"We were getting thrashed pretty bad, like I saw yesterday, and then right before the vision ended . . ."

The pause was too long for his listeners and the exasperated "What?" was uttered in stereo.

"I couldn't see you, Dean, but the me in the vision was on the ground, hopefully just unconscious. Then I heard someone begin an exorcism . . . and that was the last thing I heard."

"You didn't see who it was?" asked Dean, puzzled.

"Nope. But it was definitely Latin—I think I even recognized which exorcism it was."

Dean sat down heavily in the chair opposite Sasha's. "But if Sasha stayed in the car—are you sure she stayed in the car?" he frowned at the woman in question and his gaze wander to study the wallpaper as he thought.

"I didn't see her after I saw the parking lot. She acted like she was staying."

"What do you mean 'acted like'?" Sasha broke in.

"Well, you and Dean . . . were saying goodbye."

At this Dean's head shot up and Sasha's jaw dropped.

"No!" Sam exclaimed, a slight blush washing over his tired features. "Not like that—I didn't see any of that kind of 'goodbye'! Seriously!"

There was unconcealed relief from both Dean and Sasha, and the three of them awkwardly searched for somewhere to stare besides at each other until the discomfort dissipated.

"So . . . when do we leave?" Sasha said after a few moments, willing away the stiltedness that hung over them, with her words.

"Not so fast—there's still too much we don't know," said Dean tersely. "We're probably close to the right timing, the leaves are starting to turn, but do we have any idea what the demon's agenda is? How does he end up in the woods?"

"I don't know, and I'm not sure we should just go camping while we wait for it to show up," Sam responded, turning to Sasha. "Dean's right on this—we need to do some checking before we go after this thing. For all we know it could be Myles' demon. We need to be prepared."

Sasha paled slightly and she nodded slowly. "Callie and Zayne should be done with the data by morning," she paused and glanced at her watch, "Callie's probably wrapping up now—it's after two. I should give check in with her."

"Is it that late already?" Sam asked, turning his wrist to glance at his own watch.

"Yeah, Sammy, well, time flies when you're not conscious," Dean grinned.

Sasha was typing rapidly, focused on the laptop screen. "Callie says she just started zipping the stuff to Zayne. I'm going to ask to her start searching for weird reports in Shenandoah National Forest and—."

"Better have her check the whole county," Sam interjected.

"Got it. Then Zayne can do the scientific analysis when he's done with the other stuff."

"Man, it would be nice to catch a break and have it all line up," Dean sighed, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his chest absently. "Killing two demons with one stone is my favorite way to do it."

"Yeah, me too," Sam said quietly, watching Dean's body language, reading the exhaustion and the aching it revealed. He reached for the bottle of pills on the table and tossed it towards his brother.

Dean caught it handily and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Take some."

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You're not. Take it."

"Seriously, I'm alright," he frowned. The boys stared at one another, oblivious to Sasha who was now watching them.

"Take the pills, Dean, I know you're not okay."

"I said I'm fine," Dean snapped, "it's not bad enough to—"

"Ha! I knew it!" Sam growled. "You're hurting. There's no point in suffering, Dean."

"When I need drugs, I'll take them, Sam," he said, his tone dangerously even.

Neither moved a muscle literally or figuratively, engaged in a battle of wills, until Sasha's quiet voice reminded them that they were not alone.

"How about we call it a night?"

Sam and Dean were both startled by the intrusion of the suggestion. While Sam turned to Sasha with a murmured apology for the spat, Dean looked away, his jaw tight.


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's Note: This chapter has been a long time coming! There are Winchesters at the beginning and the end and some Sasha explanation in the middle :) Thanks for continuing to read, in spite of my slow updates. You know what reviews are for—even just a word or two makes me write faster._

**Chapter 16**

There was an uncomfortable silence and then Dean stood, heading toward the door without meeting the gaze of either Sam or Sasha.

"Dean—" Sam began, his voice tired.

"I'm going to bed, Sam," Dean said, cutting his brother off. He opened the door and then paused. When he spoke, his voice was tightly controlled and tired.

"It's been a long day. Sleep and painkillers wouldn't hurt any of us."

Sam nodded slowly at the truth of the almost-apology.

Finally, Dean glanced at Sasha. "How about we regroup over breakfast and head out by lunch."

It was a statement not a question and Sasha murmured something like a yes, then Dean was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Sam volunteered to return the empty tray and the mixing bowl Sasha had brought the ice up in to the dining room dish receptacle on their way out and in less than ten minutes Sasha Bennett was alone.

She headed into the bed room and sighed at the laundry piled accusingly on the down comforter. It would have to wait another day. This one had been far too long for her to face folding tonight. Gathering it in her arms she transferred it back to the sitting room sofa, pulling out a pair of pajamas before heading into the bathroom.

Dressed in her favorite creamy flannel jammies, Sasha turned out the light and climbed up—truly, it was almost four feet off the ground—into the delicious cloud of a bed. She considered the stack of books on the night stand and then reached over and turned out the light. She was too tired, and there was more than enough going on in her head to think herself to sleep with.

What an evening. The Winchesters could be puzzling. They were obviously close and she would bet that their bond of brotherhood was as strong as titanium. Yet she could tell there was an underlying stress between them and she guessed it was reasonably new. A death in the family will do that to you, she thought.

Playing back the events surrounding Sam's vision, Sasha felt warmth in her chest as she thought about Dean—usually rough and jesting by turns—deftly and tenderly caring for his brother. She had a feeling she'd seen a side of him tonight that he didn't show to anyone if he avoid it; not even Sam.

It had been extraordinary watching him work, working alongside him. It was no wonder that Missouri Moseley spoke of the brothers with enthusiastic approval. Their synergy while working with and for one another was no small thing and Sasha knew without a doubt that she'd only seen the tip of the iceberg in that regard. Sighing, she turned over, squishing the pillow into a more acceptable shape.

They were fascinating, together and each in their own right. Highly intelligent (though for a reason she couldn't determine Dean chose to hide behind Sam in that respect), and courageous instead of reckless (even if the older one put on a stunningly convincing daredevil front). They shared a wickedly sharp sense of humor (Dean's tending toward the inappropriate) and a true kindness (Sam showing it more comfortably than his big brother). Each had the looks of a movie star, but there wasn't much family resemblance and she wondered what their parents looked like.

It was hard for her to imagine what their lives had been thus far. From the information she'd dug up, it appeared that they'd spent the last twenty-odd years essentially on the run.

In the hunting world whispers she'd caught bits and pieces of, John Winchester was spoken of reverently or with utter disgust, and the isolation and hardness he'd apparently raised his sons with had left their mark, Sasha was sure.

She shivered as she thought of John finding the massacre of his wife in progress, of losing his home and his soul mate, then to be alone with a toddler and a baby, trying to deal with his own grief and be a parent at the same time. That would have been more than enough to craze anyone and still there was the added burden of the supernatural . . . and revenge. It was surprising the boys hadn't turned out scarier.

Well, they weren't exactly scary, Sasha mused, turning onto her back and linking her hands behind her head as she stared at the dark ceiling. Therapy would be useful for them both, but they definitely didn't emanate violence. Sam and Dean Winchester were just, _intense_. Alert and focused in a way most people weren't. They watched everyone and they saw everything and they could communicate without saying a word.

Yet almost from the instant she'd heard Dean's voice on the phone, she'd felt comfortable. Safe. She hadn't felt that in a long time, anywhere or with anyone. What did it mean that Dean Winchester gave her that kind of reassurance without even a look or a touch?

Alone in the dark she felt heat blush her face as she remembered Sam's mention of the "goodbye" in the vision. Though he was quick to dismiss it, he had been less than convincing and it was embarrassingly obvious that she and Dean had jumped to the same conclusion. She groaned and rolled over. She was too tired to think about this tonight.

As she tried to relax and force herself toward sleep, images of the two Winchesters juxtaposed themselves in her mind and she purposely let her mind wander towards Sam.

It must have irritated Dean to no end when Sam woke up taller than him one day, she thought with a little laugh. And all these years later Sam was still paying for it. He was a good sport for the most part. It had to be hard to be the odd duck out for so long in a family of dedicated hunters, as well as being the _baby_ brother.

It was nothing said outright that suggested there had been a falling out and subsequent reparation of breech, but there was this and that . . . an awkwardness that reared its head occasionally. Dean closed up and Sam became cordial. Something had happened and not that long ago.

Sam had his game face on these days though and Sasha respected him for that. Whatever differences he'd had with his brother, he'd stowed them at this point and he seemed committed to making the partnership with Dean work. He probably didn't have much choice, because it was unlikely Dean was much of a talk-it-out type, she mused. His insides were locked up pretty tightly—which was a nice way of saying that he was an emotional mess. With Dean so closed-off, Sam put up with a lot.

_This is not helping me sleep_, she grumbled, turning over yet another time and burrowing into the covers. But it didn't seem to make any difference—the next train of thought was already departing the station.

It wasn't like was without her own issues. It had been two years since she'd lost her family and there were still more nights she woke up with sobs or screams than not. She'd had a lot of therapy in the first year, but the further she ventured into the world of supernatural investigation, the less it was helpful. There were things out there that her mental health professionals didn't recognize as true, and Sasha's way through her devastation depended on her acceptance of them.

This was a familiar pattern for a lot of hunters. They been blessedly ignorant non-combatants until something had come for someone they loved. There were families where generations of hunting monsters had begun with a single attack that started a crusade against supernatural evil which would last long after the original hunter in the line was dead. It appeared that Sam and Dean were the second link in one of those chains. And maybe Sasha was starting a legacy of her own in that regard.

Evan would be horrified and so would her parents. She didn't doubt that they would be among those who wouldn't be able to comprehend this world of darkness, even if they'd been confronted with it as she had. They would have dismissed, refused to see it for what it was and gone on in grief for their dead and missing without a single thought of searching out what had really happened and why.

_Cut from a different cloth,_ she thought. _Always knew it, too. _Sasha had been a reluctant "princess". The wealth and position she'd been born to had not impressed her, even as a child. It had angered her father and distressed her mother to no end. They had both been relieved when Sasha had managed to fall in love with someone from a reasonably correct social circle.

It was not to say that she didn't appreciate the things that money could buy—she was pretty accustomed to the finer things in life and she liked it that way but no one that knew her would call her spoiled by her circumstances. She was glad to have the money to do good with and enjoy, but in her mind it didn't define it wasn't who she was. The worth of person couldn't be measured by wealth or traditional education; it was something much deeper which characterized those whom she truly respected, including herself.

Since the demon attack on her family, she was even more grateful for her inheritance. Unlimited funds had made the process of tracking it down and of getting the help she needed than it would have been otherwise. Without it, she had no doubt it would have taken years to find Missouri, to find the Winchesters.

Had in really been only about a week since she'd first met Missouri Moseley? These days it seemed like time was strange, rushing and wandering like an unpredictable river. Her days used to fit into easy patterns. Before the kids woke up. Breakfast to lunch. Naptime. Lunch to dinner. Dinner to bedtime. Each having its prescribed rituals of playing and caretaking.

Now, the waking hours ran together and it took a great deal of effort not to be disoriented, even after a year of being on her own. She often had the sensation that she was forgetting something that needed to be done when the reality was those things were lost to her forever.

Sasha felt the tears well up and she curled around her pillow, stifling a sob. _Will it ever not hurt this much?_ Missouri had told her that she'd heal, that things would get better. Told her not to shut away her heart—to cry when she felt like crying and be angry when she felt like being angry, that there was nothing wrong with those emotions. But she'd also warned her not to let them control her or they would destroy her. The emotional tidal wave ebbed and she opened her eyes, staring and the dark shapes around her, thinking about the end of her conversation with Missouri and replaying it in her head.

"_Are they any other hunters I should get in touch with? Anyone that might offer more experience than the Winchesters? It sounds as though they're fairly young . . ." she said, her voice trailing off in hesitation._

"_Years on the earth don't equal experience, honey," Missouri said severely. "And those boys are better acquainted with sorrow and wisdom then any hundred other hunters. Their knowledge of the hunting world has been hard won—and don't you forget that, no matter how adolescent they can act." _

_What had started as a fierce defense of the young men had ended with a chuckle of amusement and Missouri's sigh was deep and easily heard over the phone. The psychic began again, gently._

"_I don't know if your baby is alive, or where he might be, but I do know that if there is any chance for you to have him again on this side of the veil it starts and ends with Sam and Dean." _

_There was a pause before Missouri continued speaking. "And your meeting them is not just about your son, Ms. Bennett. Though I can't see exactly why the threads are tangled together, I can see clearly that they are. This tragedy has bound you to them somehow. . ." _

_Missouri's voice was puzzled now, as if she was struggling to understand a fuzzy picture she was looking. Sasha spoke before she could stop herself, the questions escaping as a strange tingling sensation travelled along her spine. _

"_What do you mean? Why?"_

"_I can't tell you that—all I can tell you is that when Dean Winchester asks you a question you need to do something specific, and it will be hard. It might save you both and in the end, it might save . . . everything," Missouri said._

_Sasha could barely speak at that pronouncement. While she was certainly more convinced of the supernatural now that she's been initiated into the evil that lurked in the shadows, things like Missouri's gift still hit her with twinges of suspicion, especially when the predictions were so ominous._

"_I don't understand. What question am I waiting for?" she asked._

"_That's not in my sight, sweetie . . . but when he asks it, you'll know. And you need to hold him to it and make him follow through. I don't know why this is so important, but it is."_

* * *

Dean sighed in contentment and leaned far enough back in his chair to lift the front legs off the ground an inch. "Now that was breakfast. When these people say continental, they mean more than just one continent."

"Nice not to have to hit a gas station for snacks on the way out of town for once," said Sam.

"Yup."

The elder Winchester stared out the window, enjoying this rare moment of unhurriedness. The sun was bright, but there were enough clouds to make it a comfortable day for driving. His reverie was broken as Sam cleared his throat and spoke.

"It' almost nine . . . should we check in with Sasha? I expected her down before now."

"Maybe she's not used to late nights," Dean grinned. "Your little problem kept her up into the wee hours."

Sam frowned. "Yeah, that wasn't cool. Hopefully it will be helpful though. So what are we going to do about what I saw? Sasha coming on the hunt?"

"Well, it seemed like she came with us, but just dropped us off, right?"

"True," Sam said with a nod.

"Doesn't seem to be any harm in that, right? Dean asked.

"I guess not . . . I just hate the idea of getting her into some kind of danger."

"She seems like the kind who can take care of herself," Dean said.

"She's not a trained hunter, Dean. And it seems pretty likely we're going up against a demon," Sam said. "If she gets in the way, she could get hurt."

Dean frowned, an eyebrow skeptically cocked. "I'm not sure we could stop her short of tying her up and sticking her in the trunk."

Shaking his head, Sam chuckled. "Yeah, you're probably right."

"Right about what?" Sasha asked. She pulled out a chair and sat down next to Sam.

Dean grinned like a mischievous imp. "Sam's thinking of tying you up to keep you from coming with us."

Sasha glanced at Sam whose face was reddening.

"It's not like that," Sam muttered.

"Somehow I figured," she said to Sam as she gave Dean a look of reproof.

"Have you heard from Callie and Zayne?" Sam asked, eager to move on from the awkward tail of his conversation with Dean.

"Yes," Sasha answered. "Let me order and then I'll take you over it."

Dean and Sam sat silently as Sasha motioned to the waitress and ordered enough food to make Dean raise an eyebrow. He barely had time to give his brother a meaningful glance before Sasha turned her attention back to them.

"Sorry I'm late. I was discussing the team's findings with Zayne."

She pulled her handbag onto her lap and pulled out a small silver ruggedized netbook. Flipping it open, she pushed the power button and it blinked on, instantly pulling up the last thing Sasha had been viewing. Turning it so they could both see, she began to explain the displayed data, her voice sober and quiet.

"A lot of what we needed was in the data I've already had collected. I didn't have as clear of a picture before we met, but I knew enough to be looking for patterns. The bottom line is that what Zayne's got jives with Sam's vision."

Sasha gestured toward the screen. "You can look for yourselves . . ." Her eyes lost focus and she couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from the surface of the table.

Dean felt his stomach drop, which was uncomfortable considering how full he was. He hadn't doubted that what Sam had seen would be accurate—they always were—but that confirmation always made him feel a little sick. Without thinking, he pressed his palm against the tender ache below his collarbone. The pain caused by the action made him tighten his jaw and he glanced at his brother to see if Sam had noticed.

He watched without moving as Sam turned the laptop and began to move the cursor, looking at what Sasha's techs had worked out.

"This all points to Shenandoah National Park for sure," Sam said. "Looks like we know where to go next—weather and geological stuff matches perfectly with demonic activity."

Sasha nodded, snapping out of her reverie as the waitress brought orange juice. Taking a sip, she spoke.

"In a file on the desktop there are the rest of the reports—the ones about the attacks."

Sam clicked a few times, and then glanced at Dean, who gazed back steadily, trying not to show any emotion. Dean knew what was coming. He could feel it in his gut. Seeming to sense the discomfort passing between the Winchesters, Sasha broke the awkward silence and Dean was grateful for it.

"The patterns of the other cases you forwarded to us do correspond with those of the night the demon took Myles. Zayne found six other instances in Virginia alone during the past few years with not only identical environmental modeling, but when cross-checked against news reports . . ."

It was as though she couldn't actually say the words and Dean's instinct was to reach out, to touch her hand, but he stopped himself. That desire to comfort was something he fought when it came up these days.

When Sam got too big for a hug, Dean's opportunity to physically interact with people on that level had pretty much become non-existent. But the ghost of that deeply carved habit of taking care of someone who needed it hadn't vanished when Sam hit six feet.

He'd been a caretaker longer than he'd been a hunter and it was hard not to let it take over when he saw someone else in pain. He channeled that need to save people into hunting, where it was literal, and it was a decent substitute as long as he didn't get too close to anyone. _Is that what's happening?_ He wondered briefly, and then pushed the idea away with ferocity.

Dean glanced at Sam again, who didn't seem interested in finishing Sasha's sentence for her.

"The same thing that happened to you?" he questioned softly.

Sasha nodded, biting her lip. Dean could tell that she was close to tears. Again, his insides scrambled and he took a deep breath.

"Any other survivors?" Sam asked. "Anyone else . . . missing?"

Sasha shook her head and scrubbed at her eyes. "I'm the only parent that lived. About half of the boys who disappeared were never found, so it's possible that some could be alive . . . the demon attacked them all outdoors, at night. Always families with one two children, the youngest a son about Myles' age."

They were interrupted by the waitress bringing Sasha her order-asparagus and smoked salmon breakfast pizza with a giant stack of dark chocolate and raspberry pancakes smothered in whipped cream. Dean's eyes were as big as a hungry dog's and Sasha

smiled as she pushed both dishes towards the center of the table.

"Don't encourage him," Sam said with a groan.

"Hey—I can't eat it all myself," Sasha said.

Dean winked slyly at her and picked up his fork. As the two of them started to eat, Sam reviewed the data on the demon attacks.

"No one else was actually taken . . ." Sam murmured.

Sam read while Dean and Sasha chewed and then Sam sat up straight, a puzzled look on his face.

"Now that's interesting," he said.

"What?" Sasha asked.

Sam didn't reply, just sat back with his arms folded, staring intently at the screen. Then he began clicking quickly, opening and minimizing windows so he could look at the information on them all at the same time. "What?" he said, obviously to no one in particular.

"That's my line," Sasha said.

"Don't frustrate yourself," Dean said in a mock whisper. "He can't hear you. You have to wait to ask questions until he's awoken from the geek trance."

"I can hear you," Sam muttered without looking up. "I'm just concentrating. I'm not sure what I've found—give me a sec."

Finally, Sam sighed and leaned back, his arms behind his head. "This is really weird. I don't know what it means, but it must mean something."

"Spill it," Dean said, his voice grim.

Sam hesitated before he began. "In every case, the police reports note that the little boy was found separated from the rest of the family. Sometimes it took several days to locate them. And the autopsies showed they never died at the time of the initial attack."

With fork halfway to her mouth, Sasha was stock-still like an animal in oncoming headlights. Dean watched as she set the bite of pancake down carefully on the plate and dropped her hands to her lap. He'd bet money that under the tablecloth her fists had white knuckles. She'd paled visibly.

"How did they die?" Sasha whispered. "How long did it keep them before . . ."

Sam set his jaw and Dean could tell how much his brother hated to be telling her this. When Sam spoke, he managed a soft, neutral tone for the most part—he was always better than Dean at speaking to the bereaved.

"It varied. In all cases, there was very little trauma to the actual . . . body. The only outward signs of injury were a little blood coming from their nose and a series of ritualistic cuts to their palms and soles."

"But what killed them?" Sasha asked.

"The only thing that the medical examiners could determine—it was the same in each case—was that their heart had stopped suddenly." Sam paused at this point and glanced at his brother. "There was a massive amount of adrenaline in their systems at the time they died, which made their hearts literally fail."

As Sam glanced at him again, Dean felt a chill sprint up his spine. Sam was holding back. Not telling Sasha a specific detail on purpose. His brother was a good liar, but Dean knew his tells and whatever this was, it was bad.

"Pain?" she whispered, interrupting Dean's thoughts.

Sam didn't say anything. This time when he looked at Dean, there was nothing obscuring the expression in his eyes—Sam needed help. Dean swallowed hard and ducked his head slightly, trying to make eye contact with Sasha.

"Hey. There's no way to know at this point what really happened to the other boys. And we haven't found Myles. Whatever the demon did to those other kids, he didn't do it to Myles," Dean said.

Sasha nodded, but didn't speak and Dean could see that her emotions were close to slipping away from her tight control of them. His insides churned at the pain that stormed around her and he felt his chest begin to ache.

"Look at me," he said, his voice gentle yet intense.

She did it, but he almost wished she hadn't. As she lifted her chin the liquid which had been pooling began to spill over and the agony in her eyes was almost more than he could stand.

"We don't know what happened. But we're going to find Myles. We're going to figure this out." He took a deep breath, using every ounce of his willpower to keep eye contact with her.

"I know what it's like to wonder—you can make yourself crazy with it. Don't let yourself go there, okay?"

She made no effort to wipe away the tears, but she nodded, looking away. Then without a word she stood and walked out of the room and up the stairs, leaving Sam and Dean to stare after her.

The Winchesters sat in silence for a few moments and then Dean turned to Sam and asked the question.

"What didn't you want her to know?"


End file.
